


Put up your Dukes

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Case Fic, Dean Being Dean, Human Castiel, Insomnia, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Sharing a Bed, Sparring, Top Castiel, UST, dean's wayward willy, i can't believe that's an actual tag lmao, look cas is hot ok dean's having a rough time cut him some slack, not naming names here but someone needs to stop being a dirty cockblock /SAM/
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5424044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't sleep. Cas offers to tire him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's weird bc this isn't especially dirty but i think this is what finally pushed me over the 'probably shouldn't wear white on her wedding day' hump so it's all downhill from here, baby
> 
> (i can't imagine this is going to be a super long story, but since i don't really have a plan, who knows!!! i've certainly been wrong before. look at me, livin' on the edge. )

“You look like shit,” Sam says cheerfully as he comes into the kitchen, clapping a heavy hand onto Dean’s shoulder.

Dean takes a sip of coffee to conceal his scowl.

“Yeah well, at least I don’t wear plaid that looks like clown puke,” he says, harsher than anyone ever needs to be about plaid.

Sam raises his eyebrows as he heaves an entire pig’s worth of bacon onto his plate.

“Okay then,” he says.

Dean sighs, frowning at his mug. It’s an ugly old thing, something Cas decided he liked at Value Village and wanted to rehome. The handle is chipped and it’s painted in garish colors that Dean thinks is supposed to resemble some kind of exotic locale, but really just looks like-because Dean can never get enough of ragging on his brother’s wardrobe-one of Sam’s shirts got repurposed into a mug.

Better an ugly mug than all the actual stray cats Cas seems determined to start a cult with, at least. Someone has to be the voice of reason on that one, and Dean’ll step up if only because their giant underground layer is unsuitable for beings who can’t understand KEEP OUT signs or read labels on mystical powders that could paralyze a man’s nipple if inhaled. So in exchange for making all of Cas’ furry friends take shelter somewhere colder (but probably much safer, all things considered) Dean’s pretty much up ugly crap creek without a paddle, because now he feels compelled to let Cas buy whatever inanimate godawful crap he wants, along with leaving saucers of milk and cans of tuna out on the front step every night. Dean’s had to get creative with his deodorizing to keep the fish smell out of the bunker.

“Sorry,” Dean says, rubbing at his temples. “I’m tired as fuck.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Sam says, straight faced. He tucks into the eggs he piled alongside his bacon. “I thought those bags under your eyes were just for carrying groceries.”

Dean puts his forehead on the table and it makes a dull _thunk_. For weeks it’s felt like someone’s been actively pulling his eyelids closed, but once he actually manages to lie down, he finds himself unable to sleep. His sleep schedule is far from normal or healthy, and he’s gone through bouts of insomnia before, but this seems like an entirely new beast. His eyes literally _itch_.

“At this point I’m considering a medically induced coma, to be honest,” he grumbles as he continues to inhale coffee. If he can’t sleep, he wants to at least try to be as awake as possible.  

“Have you talked to Cas?” Sam asks around a mouthful of egg. He waves a hand vaguely. “He’s not an angel anymore, but he might have some suggestions, at least.”

“I came to you because you’re supposed to be the au natural guru. Are you telling me granola and rabbit pellets ain’t gonna solve my problem?”

“You seem to know what you’re talking about,” Sam says sarcastically. “Sounds like you don’t need me at all.” He grabs his unfinished plate from the table and stands up, opening the fridge and grabbing the carton of orange juice Dean knows is at least half full. With a nod, he makes his exit carrying his breakfast spoils.

Dean waits until he can hear him padding down the hall and then yells, “Save some for the rest of us next time!” just as Cas walks into the kitchen, hair sticking up at weird angles and pajama bottoms bunching around his feet.

“Hol-y shit, Cas,” Dean whistles, looking at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Up and at’em before 10AM? The world must be ending.”

“It already did,” Cas rumbles, voice still thick with sleep. Instead of getting a mug like a normal angel-turned-human, he grabs the entire carafe and starts drinking directly from it like it’s not still scalding hot. “I smelled food.”

“You _did_ ,” Dean says, trying to swallow around sudden dry mouth. “I think Sam may have scraped the bottom of the barrel for this batch, but I can whip up some more if you want.”

Cas blinks blearily at the coffee in the carafe. As a human, his facilities aren’t usually all the way up to date until he’s downed at least double the amount of coffee any single person should consume within an entire day.

“Yes,” he finally grunts.

Dean huffs a laugh as he stands up, returning to the counter where he left the egg carton out.

“You’re an impolite son of a bitch in the mornings,” he comments, cracking a couple eggs into the same bowl he used for the last batch. Cas stands much too close, watching him work. Dean finds himself staring at the loose threads trailing from Cas’ pajama bottoms more often than at the food in front of him.

“You look terrible,” Cas says, proving Dean’s point. Nimble fingers come up, just as impolite as the person they’re attached to, turning Dean’s head so that Cas can look at him straight on. His gaze searches Dean’s face, and one thumb briefly presses to the purple splotch below Dean’s right eye before the pressure is gone suddenly, Cas’ hand dropped back to the side. “Why do you look terrible?”

“Gee, Cas, I love you too,” Dean says sarcastically, but the funny little wibble in his stomach at those words cleanly reminds him that’s a phrase he definitely wants to stay away from, even jokingly.

Cas doesn’t answer, just watches him until Dean finally gives up and shrugs.

“I dunno,” he says, defeated. He whisks the eggs harder than he needs to. “Trouble sleeping, I guess.”

“Bad dreams?” Cas asks. His breath is warm on Dean’s cheek, and their kitchen certainly isn’t huge but it’s also not a cupboard under the stairs. There’s no reason for Cas to stand this close.

“No worse than usual,” Dean says gruffly as he dumps the eggs into the pan on the stove. He reaches out, flicking the dial back on. He grabs the spatula and starts stirring, mostly to give himself something to do.

“You got cursed by that witch last month,” Cas says. “Do you think there are any lingering side effects?”

“I certainly fuckin’ hope not. I still twitch sometimes when I see shiny objects.”

“Are you stressed?” Cas presses. “Worried? Sick?”

“I dunno, Cas, are you a doctor? Gonna grab my balls and ask me to cough?”

“I’m not going to grab your testicles.”

Dean stands there like a dumbass for a moment before saying, “Well… good.” He turns back to the stove. “Now stop hovering or you’re gonna get germs in the food.”

“It’s my food, isn’t it?” Cas asks, but he slinks back to the table, now watching Dean how a cat watches a bird flap around from its perch on the garden fence. Not that experience has taught him any different, but the weight of Cas’ stare is still heavy even with the distance between them. Dean tries to ignore it as he finishes up the eggs, ladling them onto a plate. He grabs an actual mug for Cas (this one, weirdly enough, decorated with the skyline of Las Vegas), and pours a generous amount of coffee into it. He brings both to the table and sets them in front of Cas, who actually smiles, even if it’s just a twist of the mouth. For a moment, Dean feels so incredibly out of place that the roof could cave in and he wouldn’t notice, too focused on the almost-smile on Cas’ face.

The scrape of the chair legs on the floor as Cas tucks himself into the table brings Dean out of his weird trance, and he shakes his head.

“Jesus,” he says, his voice wavering slightly. “I’m so tired I think I’m starting to see things.” He starts for the door, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m gonna go take twenty Benadryl and try to die for the next six hours.”

He’s at the entrance to the kitchen when Cas says from behind him, “Please don’t.”

Dean turns around, making eye contact with Cas, who finally seems properly awake. He regards Dean softly, and the way he’s carefully forking up his eggs suggests he’s taking great care with them, which is stupid, because they’re just eggs. 

“-Die, I mean,” he corrects himself. “I suppose I can’t stop you from taking more than the recommended dose of cough medicine, even though you don’t have a cough.”

Dean is caught off guard by the comment, which is also stupid. He shakes it off, and hacks a cough for Cas’ benefit. He points at his throat and grimaces, making his voice raspy as he says, “It’s real bad, doc, I swear.”

“I’m sure it is,” Cas says mildly.

Dean salutes him with two fingers before finally making his exit, face hot as he walks down the hall.

***

A couple hours later, Dean hasn’t slept a wink. They were out of Benadryl, and despite his desperation, he’s not going to let himself behind the Impala’s wheel like this. He may not care so much about his own life, but he sure as hell loves that car and doesn’t want to see her driven into a ditch because he can’t keep his eyes open on the road.

He runs into Cas in the library, and when he asks after Sam, is informed that he went for a run.

“He would,” Dean scoffs.

Cas closes the volume he’s looking at and regards Dean closely. Under his scrutiny, Dean shifts awkwardly.

“What?” he eventually snaps, because Cas looking at him like that isn’t something he can handle for long amounts of time.

“Sam going for a run actually got me thinking,” he says.

“Oh, god, don’t tell me you want to go for a run too.”

“And I thought, maybe we can apply that principle elsewhere,” Cas continues, ignoring Dean’s interruption. “Physical activity is strenuous on the human body and liable to make _your_ body more amenable to sleep, no matter what state of upheaval your mind may be facing.”  

“What, so your plan is to tire me out?” Dean asks doubtfully.

“Yes,” Cas says simply.

“Okay…” Dean drums his fingers on the table. He doesn’t miss the glint in Cas’ eye. “So why does it feel like I just walked into a trap?”

“Well I was hoping to work on my hand-to-hand combat,” he says lightly, and Dean internally groans. Ever since falling, Cas has had a weird obsession with sparring. He’s quick as all get out and good on the offense, but his blocking still leaves much to desired, which means they both get at least a couple good (if pulled) punches on each other every session.

Dean has no problem teaching Cas human stuff, but he’d much rather it be human stuff that’s less… tension-laden. Thing is, he wouldn’t mind sticking his finger in an electric socket so much if he actually had a place to discharge.

“So basically, you want us to go to town on each other till I start counting sheep?”

“I think this arrangement could be mutually beneficial,” Cas agrees solemnly. A slight smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll go easy on you if you feel your sleep-deprived reflexes are too slow.”

Dean holds up two fingers. “Okay, one, game on.” He lowers his index finger, leaving only his middle one standing. “And two, fuck you.”

***

For the most part, the gym has remained unchanged since Sam and Dean first stumbled onto the bunker. Sam prefers to run and do his yoga crap outside, and Dean doesn’t touch any of this stuff with a ten foot pole if he can help it. Since moving in with them, Cas has shown at least a mild interest in the room, going so far as to dust it and actually put some 21st century padding down for sparring sessions, but that’s pretty much it.

Dean’s of the opinion that all gyms are terrible by virtue of the self-betterment that happens within, so it leaves him feeling like a real nut when he finds himself strangely endeared by the small potted plants Cas has added to the décor since the last time he was here. The bunker has proven fairly inhospitable to plants thanks to lack of natural light, and despite his similar lack of green thumb, even Dean can see the strain on the plants. The fact that Cas is at least trying, though, makes something warm bloom in his chest.

Cas chooses that moment to walk in front of him, shucking his shirt as he goes, and the warmth in Dean’s chest sinuously slithers to lower regions. Cas’ hair sticks up at odd angles, and Dean doesn’t miss the smirk that worms its way onto his face as he watches Dean watch him. 

“So you’re skins, guess that makes me shirts,” Dean tries to joke, but his higher faculties are already on their way to frizzing out.

Cas shrugs. “Others wiser than me might say your shirt is just going to get in the way.”

Dean swallows. “Of the sparring,” he says, “Get in the way of the sparring, right?”

Cas’ gaze is piercing. “Of course,” he says. “What else would I be talking about?”

Dean simmers.

“Nothing,” he says, gritting his teeth and looking down. He pulls off his shirt as well, face flaming. He’s glad he’s wearing baggy pants for this.

He tries not to think about it so much anymore, the way Cas throws him. He used to dwell on it like it was a complex fucking mathematical equation that was going to solve the universe, but eventually, he gave up. Just kept his head down and kept on moving, content in the knowledge that even if said math equation isn’t solved, it’s at least been identified. Not _named_ , because he has at least a semblance of self-preservation despite all evidence pointing to a complete lack of it.

Dean knows Cas is more aware of the situation than he lets on. Since becoming a full time human (no take backsies this time), Cas has developed a keen sense of selective comprehension. Basically, he keeps the idiot ball in his pocket at all times, in case he thinks letting on that he understands something isn’t going to play to his advantage.

It’s a pretty good trick, Dean has to admit as he and Cas start circling each other slowly, their feet whisping across the rundown blue mats. Not only strategically during hunts when enemies- often to their great, great detriment- underestimate Cas, but also because Dean is a sucker who apparently doesn’t mind being played if its Cas running the game. He’ll never admit out loud how often he’s made pancakes just because Cas sighs forlornly at the maple syrup they keep in the fridge.

“We never actually agreed,” Cas says, tone casual enough they may as well be talking about the weather, but eyes dark with intent, “Just how easy you’d like me to go on you.”

Dean scoffs, the sound coming out way too harsh to be anything other than protesting too much. He and Cas continue to circle around each other, and Dean has to manually remind his saliva glands to keep working because his mouth is stubbornly insistent on remaining dry. He still remembers that initial shock of seeing human Cas shirtless for the first time, choking on his sip of coffee at the kitchen table and accidentally blowing shitty Folger’s all over the research Sam had spread out there just minutes before. Getting yelled at by Sam at least gave him an opening during the ensuing chaos in which he could slink away to his room, like a raccoon who’s been chased away from the garbage cans in the middle of the night.

He hasn’t built up an immunity to Cas’ bare chest, not by any stretch of the imagination, but at least he’s stopped feeling personally victimized by Cas’ nipples. Well, maybe not the little freckle right above his right nip, but whatever, he’s not made of stone.

Dean licks his lips, paving the way for the smirk he lets slide onto his face. If Cas wants to play, Dean’ll go to bat.

“Don’t hold back on my account,” he drawls, bending his knees a little to really get the blood flowing.

“Only if you’re sure,” Cas says like he’s doing Dean a favor, coming around fast. Dean scoots out of the way.

“Oh, I’m positive.” As soon as the challenge is off his tongue, the tension in the room ratchets up another notch. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the hairs on his arms were standing at attention.

Their circling slows, turning predatory.

“So… are we just gonna dance around each other all day or-” Dean starts, but is interrupted by Cas coming at him, quick enough Dean barely manages to get a forearm up in time.

Dean prefers punches to kicks, but Cas isn’t a stranger to either. Cas goes hard on the offense at first, moving the two of them across the mats as Dean blocks shot after shot. Cas gets a couple punches in that he always pulls at the last minute, just enough force to keep Dean on his toes.

 The thought skates across Dean’s mind, just how in tune their bodies have to be for this. To keep that sense of urgency between them, and yet at the same time know that they’re pulling every punch, being watchful of each other’s movements in a way that, strangely enough, feels like they’re mutually taking care of each other. Him and Cas fall into step easily now, whether it’s breakfast, watching bad TV, or pulling punches.

“You know,” Cas says as he continues to run Dean off the mats. His chest is heaving, but his voice is annoyingly steady, “if you’d like to learn better coordination, I _have_ heard rumors that dancing cures people of that cursed second left foot.”

Dean huffs a laugh, ducking a punch and using the window of opportunity to get on the offense, swinging big and slow just to get Cas off balance. When Cas steps back, stumbling slightly, Dean’s on him, bringing them back in the opposite direction.

“I don’t think it’s me that needs the ballroom lessons,” Dean says in between grunts. “You angels are always so talk the talk, but-” Cas lands a hit on his side and Dean exhales sharply. Cas doesn’t let up, grabbing his wrist and slipping behind him, trapping his hands behind his back. He leans in, breath ghosting along the shell of Dean’s ear. His torso is lined up along Dean’s back, a solid mass of heat against him.

“What?” Cas asks quietly, lips so close to Dean’s ear Dean gives an involuntarily shudder. Cas’ hands around his wrists tighten, just incrementally, and he shifts against Dean’s back, moving his chin so that it’s just barely nudging against where his neck meets his shoulder. “Go on, Dean. Finish your sentence.”

Dean turns his head slightly, can feel the atmosphere sizzling between them. The urge to thrust back and grind against Cas is a heady possibility, making his head swim.

“Walk the walk,” he gasps out, trying to think of England and divert the blood in his body any direction but south.

He can’t see it, but he can certainly feel Cas’ devilish smile as he lets him go, trailing his fingertips briefly against the small of Dean’s bare back.

“Feeling sleepy yet?” Cas asks, circling around him once more.

“Not exactly.” Yes. No. Suffice to say there’s a lot happening right now and Dean’s not really seeing sleep as an option at the moment.

“Well then, I guess we’ll have to keep going,” Cas says, smirk curling the corners of his mouth.  

 Dean tries not to sound breathless when he says, “Bring it on, sunshine.”

They go at it again, punching and jabbing and ducking and blocking, and Cas’ hands are all over him, his elbows, his stomach, his chest, his thighs. His hands are so _big_ , Dean doesn’t know what to do when that firm grip curls its way around his bicep.

The sweat starts to gather, and they’re moving so in sync now, Dean can feel it in the glide of their bodies. It collects at the base of his spine, dwells in the divot just above Cas’ collarbone. The ends of Cas’ hair curl at his ears, and Dean longs to wrap a strand around his finger and tug.

The longer they go, the thicker the atmosphere becomes. Dean feels like he’s wading through it, adrenaline spiking through his system like jagged lightning as Cas draws inexorably closer. The breath is punching out of him now, both from physical exertion and otherwise. Dean notes when Cas takes one step slightly too far to the side, and takes his chance, sweeping Cas’ feet out from under him and pinning him to the mat, their torsos now flush pressed together. They breathe harshly, Dean’s hands flat on the mat on either side of Cas’ head as he stares down at him. He feels his lips part slightly, his tongue darting out unconsciously to lick them.  Cas’ eyes follow the movement with laser like precision.

“You can say uncle any time,” Dean offers weakly, his dick begging him to rut against Cas’ hip till he comes. He swallows.

Cas’ pupils are dilated, his mouth wide and pink and inviting. He watches Dean with dark eyes, then thrusts his hips upwards, grinding into Dean’s, and Dean barely has time to think, _holy shit_ , before he realizes he’s being countered and this time it’s Cas slamming him into the mat, on top of him so fast Dean’s dizzy with it.

Cas’ mouth is tantalizingly close to his when he murmurs, “And I extend the same courtesy to you, of course.” The smirk on his face grows. “Are you tired yet?”

“I…” Dean momentarily loses all ability to speak as he realizes that streak of heat in the crease of his thigh is Cas’ cock, radiating warmth that makes Dean’s mouth water. He can feel his higher faculties growing further and further away, like he’s pushed them off the high cliff he’s just led them to the top of. They’re echoing in his head, but just barely. All those years of rationalizing and repressing suddenly seem so unimportant in light of how Cas fits against him. That squeeze in his gut is primal, animalistic. Aching for the heat of Cas to fill him, consume him.

Overcome, he shifts under Cas, seeking friction. He can feel the shape of Cas’ dick run along the line of skin just above his sweats, and he exhales hard, biting back a moan that desperately wants to be ripped from him. His sweaty hands grapple for purchase on the rough mats beneath him, mostly to stop himself from latching onto Cas’ sweat-slick skin. He tries not to think how easy it would be to wrap his legs around Cas’ waist when they’re in a position like this, lining up their dicks, letting Cas thrust against him. Even with the layers of clothing between them right now, Dean’s willing to bet it wouldn’t take more than a couple strong thrusts for Cas to finish him off, Cas’ hands in his hair and tongue curling possessively against his own.

“Dean,” Cas says quietly, his voice catching at the end. It does little to hide Cas’ rapid breathing, the muscles in his arms and stomach jumping with effort—of holding himself back, Dean can only assume, as the thrill of that thought shoots snappily up his spine.

“Just-” Dean blinks rapidly, knowing if he looks Cas in the eye he’s going to lose it. His hand curls into a tight fist against the mat and he grits his teeth, trying to remind himself of how terrible an idea this is. His whole body is aflame. Even his toes are curling.

“Dean,” Cas grounds out again, and this time Dean doesn’t even think, just follows the order in Cas’ tone and meets his blown gaze, the blue almost completely obscured.

As soon as he does, he knows he’s a goner. Not that he wasn’t already, but this is him, flying over that cliff only preceded by his better judgement.

Greedily, he unballs his fist and curls first one hand around Cas’ waist, the skin searing his palm. Cas pushes forward, seemingly by instinct, and pleasure ricochets through Dean like a pinball, lighting him up from the inside out. Cas moves one hand to lay across the wrist Dean still has against the mat, securing him in place. Three of his absurdly long fingers slip up along his palm, and without thinking about, Dean curls his own fingers around them. Cas runs his thumb along the ridge of Dean’s curled knuckles, a small, reverent gesture that somehow manages to stand out despite the current, overwhelming haze of arousal coursing through his system.   

He doesn’t have the coherence to say it right now, but he’s begging Cas with his eyes, begging for a hot mouth to capture his own. Really, they haven’t even _done_ anything. This isn’t even dry humping. It’s also not the kind of shit they can exactly play off at this point, and Dean doesn’t even want to anymore, but he’s so fucking desperate for Cas, and Cas is staring directly at his mouth, and Dean’s so focused on that he doesn’t notice that Cas’ free hand has come to rest just under his jaw until its already there, his thumb pressing to the center of Dean’s lips. He watches as Cas focuses like the universe has shrunk down  to contain only the two of them, as he drags his thumb down, the tip just catching on the slick inside of Dean’s bottom lip.

Dean swallows hard, but he can’t take it anymore. He needs _something_ naked inside him, and barely has to cant his jaw up to catch the head of Cas’ thumb between his lips. Cas’ eyes widen, a harsh breath escaping him. Dean flicks his tongue against skin, inviting more of Cas in. His grip on Dean’s other hand tightens, and he slides his thumb forward, Dean circling it with his tongue. He thought he was salivating before, but feeling Cas inside him, even if it’s just a finger, is enough to make his eyes roll back in his head.

Cas shifts, sitting up more fully so that he’s closer to straddling Dean instead of pinning him, and at the shift, Dean feels their dicks once again brush tantalizingly close together. He groans around Cas’ thumb, his grip on Cas’ waist tightening, and in response, Cas gives another experimental thrust of his hips. This time Dean can’t hold back, and the groan that escapes him is guttural and needy, a sloppy thing that’s boiling up and over whether it has his permission of not. He feels like he’s getting fucked into a mattress and yet they both still have their pants on and _yet_ he’s probably gonna end up coming like this, on the floor, on his back, dirty as sin and practically grovelling for anything Cas wants to give him.

His hand slides down from Cas’ waist to enthusiastically palm his ass. Cas bucks forward at that, pulling his thumb from Dean’s mouth where a strand of saliva still connects the two. Dean barely has time to register if he’s fucked up when he feels the tips of Cas’ index and middle fingers sliding past his lips, and he eagerly takes the extra girth and length, Cas’ slick thumb now pressing to the corner of Dean’s mouth.

Cas picks up the pace on top of him, timing the swivel of his hips to the thrust of his fingers into Dean’s mouth. Everywhere he’s got a hand, Dean holds on. With the angle he’s at it’s hard to contribute to the rhythm Cas has got, so he doubles down on the finger sucking, putting his tongue to work and trying to see past the stars so he can watch Cas come apart on top of him.

Not that he’s faring much better beneath. He’s trying to moan Cas’ name around his fingers, his dick throbbing every time Cas’ rubs against it. It’s another imperfect angle, but Dean certainly isn’t going to stop things so they can fuss around. He’s long past caring about the respectable orgasm he’s definitely not gonna get today, doesn’t even care if he ruins his pants, the gym mats. He’s gonna lose it right here, and he doesn’t care. Judging by the way the tension coils in his abdomen, this is going to be the kind of orgasm one doesn’t just get up and walk away from, but the mind-meltingly, desperate, jelly-legged, we’ve-been-waiting-for-years-to-do-this, nirvana-esque levels of bliss he’s not entirely sure he’s ever even experienced.

Cas properly threads their fingers together, and Dean’s about to say something that- unfortunately for everyone involved, he’s sure- is very true.

And then—

Sam calls his name. Clear as a goddamn bell.

Reality comes crashing back down like a fucking tactical strike. Dean feels about six different strands of his fight or flight instinct kick in, and he sure as hell is in no condition to fight at the moment.

Cas, following his lead-albeit with glazed eyes-, shimmies backwards, while Dean swears under his breath and trips over his own feet as he stands up, willing his achingly hard dick to stand in the exact opposite direction.

“Dean!” Sam calls again, his voice echoing down the hallway. “Cas!”

Cas is still sitting there looking like he just got struck by lightning, and Dean is hobbling around trying to find his discarded shirt and not jostle his currently very sensitive more than necessary.

In a voice that sounds like it belongs to someone who just yanked their hand from the cookie jar, Dean shouts back, “In here!”

There’s the sound of footsteps, and Dean still can’t find his shirt, and there’s the sound of the door opening, and Dean _still_ can’t find his shirt, and-

“Uh, hi,” Sam says from the doorway, a little unsure.

“Um-” Dean, still very shirtless and still very erect, scurries over to the nearest weightlifting bench and sits, and because desperate times call for desperate measures, he crosses his legs, and crosses his arms over that. “Hi.”

Sam, though thankfully not sporting a raging boner at the moment, still manages to look almost as uncomfortable as Dean.

“Did I… uh. Interrupt?”

Dean shakes his head, probably overdoing it.

“Nope, no, nada. Cas was just. Helping me…” he casts his gaze around, searching for an excuse. He remembers he’s sitting on a weightlifting bench. “Pump-” ( _oh god_ _don’t say pump_ ) “-iron.”

Sam and Dean both turn to look, and definitely realize at the same time that the current weight on the bar is about twice the weight Dean could feasibly lift.

Dean clears his throat.

“Cas is a good spotter.”

“Yes,” Cas says mildly from where he’s still sitting on the floor, “I’m good at doing… that.”

Dean clears his throat again, trying to keep his voice contained to a normal volume and speed.

“What do you want, Sam?”

“I just… needed some help with this selkie research… Uh,” he shakes his head, backing away towards the door, “Doesn’t matter. It’s fine. I’ll leave you two to-”

“No!” Dean says, failing in his efforts and speaking way too loudly and quickly. His dick has calmed down enough he can safely stand now, most likely aided by the truckload of blood that has since traveled to his face. “I mean, sure, let me just-” he starts beelining for the door, “I just gotta- shower- WEIGHTLIFTING. From the weightlifting. Shower. Um.” Christ, he can’t even look Cas in the face. This is bad, this is why they never- why nothing ever-

He doesn’t even finish his sentence. He runs his ass to the shower, tail so firmly tucked between his legs he may as well not have one at all. The plan is to turn the shower onto the coldest setting, but while he’s retrieving a towel from the shelf, he finds himself betrayed by his own dick once more, which obviously still has Cas on the brain despite the incredibly debilitating humiliation it just suffered.

He keeps the water hot, soaping himself up before taking his cock in hand with a sigh. He presses his forehead to the wall and tries not to think as he gets himself off, not nearly enthusiastically as it would have happened a mere ten fucking minutes ago.

It’s better this way, he tries to tell himself. No, they can’t exactly play that off like it was nothing, that’s already been established; but if there’s anything Dean Winchester is good at, it’s avoidance. Because a roommate/best friend who you just kinda-almost-banged isn’t exactly going anywhere, but it’s a big bunker. Lots of nooks and crannies to sequester oneself away in.

Dean and Cas can’t be _Dean and Cas_ for… reasons. Dean knows he had reasons. Had them laid out _meticulously_ in case of an emergency like this, in fact. He’s kind of blanking on them right now, because they felt strangely inane (read: fucking ridiculous) when him and Cas were kinda-almost- _him and Cas_ but he had _reasons_ , dammit. Good ones.

He just needs to remember that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [retta voice] oh sam winchester. you fine but ya cockblock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say this is shameless but lets not play coy im feeling a lot of rightfully deserved shame

Dean feels like a turd.

Not that that’s a particularly new feeling for him, but this isn’t the vague, existential turdism he’s used to. This time it’s pretty clear how exactly he fucked up. That is, presenting his ass to Cas in the gym the other day like a goddamn roasted pig probably wasn’t the best course of action if his initial plan was to… Well. _Not_ present his ass to Cas like a goddamn roasted pig.

Now that the mistake has been made, however, he’s kind of stuck. He’s kicked Cas out of the bunker once already, and even trying to justify it a second time just because Dean can’t keep his dick in his pants is a level of shame he’s not even sure hell’s circles encompass. So obviously, he’s not gonna do that.

_He_ could leave the bunker, but Sam, god bless his dumb, cockblocking soul, would probably find that a little strange, and the last thing Dean needs right now is for anything to look strange. Everything is fine. Everything is normal. Everything is not currently undergoing massive amounts of damage control, even if it’s all just occurring in Dean’s brain because he’s afraid that even so much as meeting Cas’ eye is going to send him scurrying away to nearest dark corner like a horny cockroach.

He had a weird childhood, to put it lightly. Maybe this is how the universe is balancing things out, by putting him through the teenaged paces he never really got the chance to at the time. It’s some fucking bullshit, is what it is, but when has the universe been anything else, really.

He’s been sticking to Sam’s side like a particularly determined barnacle for the past few days, convinced this is the only way to avoid any one on one conversations between him and Cas. He can only imagine how those would go: _Hey Cas, remember how desperately I let you fuck my mouth with your fingers the other day? Yeah, good times. We’re such good buddies._ Best _buddies._ _Who writhe together on a gym floor and hold hands while they dry hump. Things all buddies do._

Sam doesn’t seem to notice anything’s amiss at first, but by day three, he does send Dean a shrewd look as they just “happen” to pass by each other for approximately the sixth time that day in the bunker hallway.

“Dude, don’t you have, like, something to do?” he asks.

Dean, who has most definitely not been hiding around the corner waiting for Sam to exit the bathroom, shakes his head too quickly. “Nope,” he says, “It’s just another day. A totally normal day.”

“… Right.” Sam says slowly. “Well, in that case, I’m going for a run.”

“I’ll go with you,” is out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop it, and he just manages not to clap a hand over his mouth in surprise.

Sam’s face twists in comical horror, his entire forehead looking like it’s counting down to takeoff. Dean can’t even begrudge him that, because he feels exactly the same way.

“Uh,” Sam says, dumbfounded. “Sure. I guess.”

“Yeah,” Dean repeats, his voice a little too high. “Yeah, it’ll be-” he chokes on the word a little, “-fun.”

He awkwardly pats Sam on the shoulder and wonders if he even owns a pair of running shoes.

***

They make it a solid seven minutes due south of the bunker before Dean collapses on the side of the road.

“God,” he wheezes, “This is a lot easier when something’s chasing you.”

Sam jogs on the spot, his little pony tail bobbing against his neck.

“We can take a breather,” he offers, slipping into some kind of dynamic stretch. Dean didn’t even realize his brother had matching jogging suits until today. He looks like he just walked out of an Adidas ad.

Dean, meanwhile, should’ve worn a darker shirt. The sweat has not been kind to him.

“I would take a whole nest of vamps solo over this,” he says, his heart still slamming itself against his ribs. “I would take the whole heavenly host, full powered, over this. I would take _Lucifer_ -”

Sam holds up a hand. “Thanks, I get it.” He watches Dean, considering. “Why’d you wanna come, then?”

Dean gestures at the not-so-exciting landscape around them, pulling himself up on a knee.

“I just… love nature,” he says. He picks up a pebble from the side of the road. “Look at that. A rock. Neato.” 

“Okay,” Sam says dryly. “That’s super, Dean. Good for you. I’m gonna continue my run now. You coming or not?”

Before Dean gets a chance to answer, Sam continues idly, “Cas is probably wondering where you went. The last thing he’d expect was you, y’know-” he gestures to the frankly embarrassing mess of Dean’s sweaty torso. “You doing… well, let’s face it. Any kind of physical activity that isn’t chopping heads off of things.”

Little does Sam know the whole reason Dean’s in this mess in the first place is that he participated in too _much_ physical activity, but the less said about that the better.

Sam’s aside does get him back on two feet, however, the spike of adrenaline at the mention of Cas’ name going to completely appropriate places for the situation at hand. No way is he going back to that bunker, Sam-less. An entire life getting cockblocked by his little brother, and now that he’s actually trying to procure said services, Sam completely drops the ball. Typical.

Dean points a menacing finger in Sam’s face.

“Shut up,” he says. “We’re doing this thing.” And even though he knows Sam could overtake him in a couple long strides, he sprints off down the road, Sam’s bitchy sigh following in his wake.

When they get home, Dean deader than that time he got shredded by hellhounds, Cas is waiting for them in the library. His eyes briefly flicker up and then down, and then back up Dean’s body as he meets the two of them at the bottom of the stairs. Something sparks in his glance for only a moment, but it’s enough that Dean has to struggle to hear the actual words coming out of his mouth.

“I’ve found us a case,” he says.

***

Cas and Sam are talking about the bunker’s gym on the way to what Cas suspects is a couple hidebehinds attacking a logging crew up in Minnesota. Dean’s faced a lot of terrifying things in his life, including but not limited to hellfire and damnation, but he thinks he might have finally reached peak terror right here right now, in the driver’s seat of the Impala. Listening to Cas casually discuss the room in which Dean just recently almost had his best orgasm in current memory is a little disorienting. The fact that he’s talking about it with _Sam_ makes this whole ordeal approximately one million times worse.

“On days when the weather is especially disagreeable, it could be a good alternative for your workout,” Cas is saying from the backseat. He’s not looking at Dean but it feels like he’s looking at Dean. Dean’s been nursing uncomfortably tight pants for the last fifteen minutes or so, Cas’ continued rough-whiskey baritone the prime suspect.

“Yeah, I mean, maybe get some modern equipment down there, some stuff from the 21st century. It could be good,” Sam says thoughtfully.

Cas actually looks at Dean now, and for once in his goddamn life Dean keeps his eyes on the road. That shifting in his seat, though. He can’t help that.

“What did you think of the gym, Dean?” Cas asks innocently. “We’ve sparred there a few times. What’s your take on it?”

For a full three seconds Dean convinces himself that his entire encounter with Cas the other day was some kinda crazy, insomnia-fueled fever dream. And then he realizes that’s impossible because he now knows what Cas’ fingers taste like, and even just thinking about it has him swallowing tightly. Cas, the bastard, has a palm curled around Dean’s seat, his fingertips less than an inch away from Dean’s waist.

“S’fine,” Dean blurts, knuckles whitening on the wheel. “Good. Normal. Uh.” The memory of Cas’ hips rocking into his own stutters his thought process. God, Cas’ dick was right there, so fucking warm and big and hard against him, so _good_. Anytime he’s slipped in the last few days, he’s found himself wondering what it would feel like, properly naked. Cas holding him flat, thrusting into him with that ex-angel strength that makes Dean tingle even at its most moderate displays. Heat crowds as his face and curls up under his collar as he tries to remember where he is, that him and Cas are _friends_.  Buddies. He’s operating a motor vehicle for fuck’s sake.

“Did you find the mats operational for hand to hand practice?” Cas asks lightly. “For example, after I pinned you, how did you feel? Sorer than normal? Achy?” He waits a very deliberate beat before continuing, in the exact same tone that still somehow manages to drip suggestiveness, “Frustrated?”

Dean loudly clears his throat, spotting a thankful road sign they’re just passing advertising a gas station. His blood is pumping a little (lot) hard under the skin, and he clenches his jaw.

“Hey,” he says, trying not to sound like a dog’s chew toy, “Sorry to cut this scintillating conversation short, but I need to piss.”

He pulls off at the next exit, doing some serious meditative work he honestly didn’t think he had in him to keep his dick down. He barely manages to order Sam to get some gas before hurling himself around the side of the building, praying for the first time in a long ass time and redeeming all those built up sin points to hopefully give him a clear shot at the bathroom.

For once, someone’s smiling down on him as he enters the empty bathroom, barely remembering to bar the door behind him as he furiously unbuckles his jeans. He refuses to acknowledge his periphery vision because he doesn’t have time to take stock of his situation, he’s got a problem that needs to be addressed now, because Cas is a hot asshole who might not be cognizant of the former trait, but is intimately acquainted with the latter.

He stands there in that dirty ass bathroom somewhere in Iowa, belt unbuckled, staring into the cracked mirror above the sink. There’s a wild look in his eye, and an understanding there: if he doesn’t do this now, it’s just gonna keep on keeping on all the way to Minnesota. Then all the way home, all the way for the rest of his life just because Cas pressed him into a thin gym mat and rutted against him and all Dean wanted, from his full mouth down to the very tips of his toes, was for Cas to claim him, hold him down, finish what he started. He broke the dam, and now Dean’s flowing, and flowing, and flowing.

Desire burns in his gut, Cas’ phantom touch from the car warm on his waist. He doesn’t know what Cas’ mouth feels like, never even got around to it. He tasted Cas’ fingers in the gym but he wants more, wants to learn the tang of his sweat and the bitterness of his come. He shoves his jeans down to mid-thigh and pulls his dick through the slit in his boxer-briefs, one hand circling it while the other, almost unconsciously, sneaks up his torso until he’s swallowing his own fingers down, three of them right away. It’s the closest to his encounter with Cas he can replicate, and he tries to pretend its Cas he’s sucking on, Cas who’s filling him up, as he strokes himself. He takes himself back to the gym, to the sweat and the slick between their bodies, the way Cas entangled their fingers while still pressing him down, an entire line of heat along his body that lit him up under the skin, made him a gasping and desperate and whimpering _ache_ as he took everything Cas was giving and greedily asked for more.  

There’s a line of drool running down the back of his hand, but he doesn’t care. Cas’ gravel voice plays on a loop in his head, how he had said Dean’s name in a belly-to-the-earth kind of way, that dropped the bottom out of Dean’s stomach. The only kind of lube he has is his own precome, and he slicks himself up as best he can, but truth be told, he doesn’t mind the drag. It’s so visceral, the way he’s trying to fuck his mouth and fuck his hand at the same time, the pull of teeth on skin and skin on palm. He tries Cas’ name out in his mouth, spreading his fingers momentarily so he can hiss it out through his teeth, and it tastes so good it ends on a moan. He tries to temper it, but an absurd fantasy bubbles up so quickly he has no hope of popping it: Cas, knowing what Dean was going to do, waiting outside the door. Hearing the desperate unbuckling of his belt and Dean saying his name and Dean _moaning_ his name. Somehow the door gets unlocked, and Cas is there, shoving a practically quivering Dean up against the wall, and Dean has two fistfuls of fabric from Cas’ shirt balled up in his hands as Cas’ hot mouth trails down his neck. Cas has a hand on Dean’s jaw, angling him so that he’s baring as much throat as possible. His other hand is lower, fingers grazing Dean’s abdomen and the curl of hair just below that.

“Cas,” he whines, panting, as fantasy-Cas’ fingers trail even lower, circling the base of his dick, brushing over his balls, then stopping, teasing, waiting.

Dean breathes out hard, wetting his bottom lip as best he can around his fingers. He eases his hand off his dick and it curves up towards his belly eagerly. He follows fantasy-Cas’ path, fingers stiff and clumsy. He’s done this before, though not for a long time.

But now, he wants, - _needs-_ it. Whatever it takes to get the pressure off for the next little while.  This is all so clumsy and uncoordinated and sloppy that it’s skidded right past embarrassing on the scale of traumatic human experiences, right over the peak level of pure mortification on desperation alone. But he’s so lost in the cocktail of want swirling in his brain right now that he can only accept his flaming cheeks for the blaring lust sirens they are.  

The angle is traitorously awkward, but Dean wedges his hip against the corner of the (oh, god, dirty, _dirty_ ) sink, still refusing to lose the weight and feel of his own- fantasy Cas’- fingers on his tongue.  It won’t take long now—Dean recognizes the familiar heat in his gut, deepened and extended by the elaborate fantasy-now-kind-of-reality Cas.

The first touch just catches on the edge of his rim, and he gasps loud enough that even being muffled by his own fingers doesn’t help. Everything jumps, from the muscles in his belly to his slick cock, and God, Cas’ hands are so pretty, he just wants those fingers wrapped around him, inside him in any way possible. He wants that stubble everywhere, wants to wear the burn on his neck and his chest and his thighs like a badge of honor. He wants the searing weight of Cas’ eyes on him, that gaze trained so intently on his own that it makes him want to come just from that, the sheer penetration of a mere _look_.

There’s the drag-burn of a barely there, lube-less finger inserted to the first knuckle, and Dean gets that top-of-the-drop, transcendent roller coaster jump in his gut before the sharp descent of orgasm hits him, his knees buckling and a groan wrapping vice tight around his fingers, desperate to escape to the far corners of the room. Both hands come up to grip the grimy porcelain sink, his knuckles white as he pants through it. He can feel the stripes of come on his chest, and in one last bid for final, humiliating defeat, he can see that some of it has caught on the mirror above the sink.

“Fffuuuuu…” is all he can manage in a dead voice, some garbled attempt at a curse, his body finally free of the tension that’s been plaguing him since he got stuck in a car with Cas hours ago. He closes his eyes in resignation, trying to get his breathing back under control.

And he thought he couldn’t look Cas in the eye before, holy shit.

Very methodically (because if he does it any other way, he’s going to lose his shit), Dean cleans himself up. The dick gets tucked, the jeans get rebuckled, the (goddamn it) mirror and torso get wiped down. He washes his hands vigorously, and then splashes cold water on his face. He stares at himself in the mirror, his eyes still a little too bright.

“Fuck,” he says. That was an unprecedented level of depravity, even for him.

He takes a breath, and reminds himself not to walk out of this bathroom like he just had an orgasm that fried half his hard drive.

Which is why as soon as he rounds the corner, he starts barking at Sam like a tipped guard dog, ordering him into the driver’s seat (“Because I say so, that’s why, Sam”), and not-obviously-at-all avoiding Cas’ eyes like he’s expecting lasers to shoot out of them at any time.

When they finally get back on the road, Dean determinedly stares out the window like a sulking thirteen year old, and tries to ignore the haze of smugness that’s engulfed the car, originating from the back seat.

You’re imagining it, Dean tells himself. There’s no way Cas could know, and besides, Cas is a smug bastard only on days ending with Y, so even if he _is_ being a little shit about something, it could be pretty much anything.

Regardless, he finds himself sinking lower and lower in his seat in the misguided hope that the barrier between them will lessen the amount of flips Dean’s stomach does every time his mind drifts back there. At one point, just south of the Minnesota border, Dean reaches up to scratch an itch just under his lip, and suddenly rips his hand away so violently that he smacks it against the passenger side door and Sam almost drives them off the ride.

“What the hell was that?” Sam snaps, his eyes fixed front.

Dean can’t say, _that was the finger that was up my own ass earlier_ _and I’m still kind of jumpy about it_ , so instead he settles for, “Uh, bug. Big one.”

“For God’s sake,” Sam grumbles, but doesn’t say anything else.

Cas offers nothing from the back seat, and Dean crosses his arms firmly and petulantly.

***

They pull into the notel of the week just before midnight, and Dean is chomping at the bit to shove Cas off into his own room if only to preserve his sanity, which makes the following events even more of a kick in the nads than they normally would have been.

“Sorry,” the girl behind the desk says. She’s popping bubble gum obnoxiously and doesn’t sound sorry at all. “We only got one room left.”

“How can a place in northern Minnesota that charges fifty bucks a night be _that_ full?” Dean asks, agog. He tries not to let the desperation bleed into his tone, but he can feel Sam looking at him weirdly. The three of them have shared a room before in similar situations, but that was before him and Cas did the half roll in the hay in the gym and blew everything to hell.

“Listen,” the girl says, “It’s Friday night, and there’s logging crews all over the place up here. Do the math. There’s a Super 8 in Grand Rapids if you really need two rooms.”

“Oh, good, only more than an hour away then,” Dean simpers as he pulls out his wallet. “Great. Awesome.”

It’s only when they’re finally walking out of the office, Dean with begrudging key in hand, that the girl calls after them.

“By the way, it’s two doubles.”

Dean’s mouth is open to snap back over his shoulder, but Sam grabs him by the coat and hauls him out the door with an apologetic wave back at her.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to stow it,” Sam says when they’re outside.

Dean straightens his jacket with too much force as they signal for Cas to follow them in the Impala to room seven’s parking spot.  

“I hate hidebehinds,” Dean lies. Out of all the shitty things they hunt, hidebehinds are definitely one of the less-shitty. Alcohol is a deterrent to them, so a beer or two before a case involving them isn’t even an ill-advised dalliance, but practically mandatory.

Sam obviously knows he’s lying , but he just sighs and says nothing.

After Cas has parked the car and tossed them both their duffel bags, he slings his own over his shoulder.

“Where am I?” he asks, obviously expecting a second set of keys.

“Not enough room at the inn,” Dean grunts.

“You’re with us tonight, they’re full everywhere else,” Sam says. “We’ll try to get another room tomorrow.”

Cas shrugs non-committedly.

“Okay,” he says, looking innocently at Dean.

Dean wants to deck him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> severe apologies for taking longer than an east coast winter to finally post a new chapter. severe-er apologies to dean's prolonged and multiple conniptions that i love poking with a stick

Dean was the taller Winchester brother until he was seventeen. Then, Sam vertically extended in that annoying way young teenagers tend to do, and one faithful day Dean found himself looking up at his younger brother for the first time in his life. It sent Dean spiralling into what could only be called an early onset existential crisis, not to mention a slightly bruised ego.

There was a lot of lamenting in the very ingrained part of Dean’s brain that reminded him, day in day out, that his primary job was to protect his little brother. It sounds dumb in the harsh light of his mid-30s, but seventeen year old boys tend to be exactly that. Dean didn’t know how to protect a brother he had to stand on his tip toes to noogie. He knew how to tell Sam to hide in a cupboard or under the bed if things were going to get hairy, but even putting himself between Sam and a monster wasn’t a possibility after the growth spurt. He couldn’t be that wall between Sam and the supernatural anymore, because all Sam had to do was look over him.

Sam was taller than John as well, but somehow that never registered in Dean’s mind. To Dean, John wasn’t Sam’s protector. He was.

It’s one of those things that prickles behind Dean’s eyes every once in a while, even though Sam has been taller than him for almost two decades now. Really, it’s all very sad and nostalgic and tugs painfully in his gut when he thinks about it too hard, because big brothers never really stop being big brothers.   

However.

On nights like tonight, it’s more a prickle of annoyance behind the eyes than any deeply buried and private sentiment.

Tonight, Dean comforts himself with the knowledge that the taller they are, the harder they fall.

Sam flops onto the bed nearest the door with nary a rock, paper, or scissor thrown, clearly meaning to occupy the entire double, leaving Dean and Cas to share the other one.

An involuntary, squawky avian noise escapes Dean’s throat, and both Cas and Sam turn to look at him with raised eyebrows. Before he can comment on the strange, non-existent tropical bird roosting in the parking lot, Dean gives himself away by letting loose a chuckle that sounds like he caught himself in his zipper and he’s trying to be cool about it.

“Who says you get a bed to yourself?” he tries to sound indignant, but there’s no way he’s erasing the superimposing of his image over Toucan Sam’s in either Cas’ or his brother’s mind anytime soon.

Sam gives him a confused look.

“You and Cas always sleep together?” he says, slow like he’s worried Dean may have taken a two by four to the head when he wasn’t looking.

Heat immediately crowds Dean’s face, and he hopes this place is dingy enough to hide the inevitable color that’s rising to flood his cheeks.

“Wha- wait- no, we…” he trails off as he realizes that Sam’s only referring to when the three of them get stuck sharing a motel room. He tries to sound dignified as he recalibrates. “What, so I take one for the team and suddenly for the rest of my life I get stuck with Blanket Hog McGee over here?” He jams his thumb over his shoulder at Cas, who makes an affronted noise in protest.

Dean’s pissy righteousness doesn’t seem to affect Sam in any meaningful way, as he stares at Dean, unimpressed.

“‘Taking one for the team’ sounds a little overdramatic, but fine.” Sam says, standing back up. He shrugs. “I’ll bunk with Cas for the night.” He looks over Dean’s shoulder at Cas. “That okay with you?”

“Sure,” Cas says, as a siren starts blaring very loudly in Dean’s brain. Admittedly, he didn’t think it through this far. He’s complaining because he’s overcompensating, but he’s only overcompensating because it’s true, and now his overcompensating has led to his complaining actually being acknowledged, which means he’s lost the thing he was overcompensating for in the first place.

This isn’t what he wanted.

“Wait,” he says without thinking.

Once again, Sam and Cas turn to him, and now he realizes he has to explain why he actually wants to share a bed with Cas despite just complaining about sharing a bed with Cas. But he also has to frame his argument in a way that doesn’t actually make it sound like he wants to share a bed with Cas, because no one can know he actually wants to share a bed with Cas.

For the record, he _doesn’t_ want to share a bed with Cas… But he also doesn’t _not_ want to share a bed with Cas. In a totally platonic way, of course. Just like how they platonically sparred and platonically dry humped a couple days ago. Just like how, only earlier today, Dean platonically jerked off in a dirty gas station bathroom to thoughts of said sparring match.

Really, all this rationale is very above board. And because Dean is being oh-so-transparent about this entire thing, all he has to do is tell the truth.  The truth will set him free, right?

Instead, “Sam farts,” tumbles out of his mouth, which _is,_ technically, a truth. Whether or not it’s relevant to this situation doesn’t matter.

“What?” Sam and Cas say. Sam looks kind of offended.

Dean swallows.

“Yeah,” he says. He’s sweating. He probably shouldn’t pull at his collar right now as it’ll only make him look like even more of a caricature of himself. “All the time. All through the night.”

“Okay, De-”

“Shared a bed with him sometimes as a kid,” Dean steamrolls on, figures he may as well pave over this entire conversational train wreck while he can. “I’m telling you, that kid could power a small city for a week with just one night’s worth of-”

The bathroom door closes.

Dean turns around, and Cas is gone.

He deflates a little, and sits on the bed opposite Sam. He can feel Sam watching him, and after a minute, he reaches across the space between the beds and pokes Dean in the shoulder.

“What was that for?” Dean asks. From the bathroom, he hears the sound of the shower turning on. He tries not to think about it.

“Just making sure you’re not literally coming apart at the seams too,” Sam says casually. He claps Dean on the shoulder. “I saw a liquor store on our way into town. I’m gonna go pick up some stuff for the case before they close.”

Sam shrugs on his jacket and pats his pocket, the Impala’s keys jingling dully inside. His hand is on the doorknob when Dean knocks himself over again, and, “Sam, wait,” spills out.

Sam looks back at him.

Dean could tell him.

Tell him what, though?

Nothing. Nothing at all. There’s nothing to tell.

Exactly.

Everything Dean is doing and saying and thinking is totally normal. This is how people who are alive and living on earth act. Assuming something is off would mean assuming something is wrong and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this picture, not at all. Any feelings Dean has on the matter of the being currently occupying the motel shower have been worked through, addressed, stamped, signed, dated, and filed. Efficiently. Analytically. Professionally.

“Do you… want something?” Sam prompts. “You said, ‘Sam, wait,’ and then… didn’t say anything.”

Dean blinks.

“Yeah, uh. Alcohol.”

Sam nods slowly. “Right. Well. I’ll add alcohol on my list of things to get at the liquor store. Thanks for the suggestion.”

He shuts the door behind him. Dean lies back on the bed that him and Cas were sharing, then weren’t sharing, now are sharing again. There’s a water stain on the ceiling, and Dean concentrates very hard on that because it prevents him from concentrating very hard on literally anything else.

***

Dean’s died many times in his life, and has been through more shit in the past year that most people go through in half a century. He’s fought literal Gods, for fuck’s sake.

And yet somehow none of that has prepared him for the sight of Cas coming out of the bathroom with a ratty towel slung low across his waist.

Water droplets still cling to his skin, and Dean can feel the warm blast of steam that follows Cas out of the bathroom. His hair hangs wetly over his eyes, and he runs a hand through it, gaze meeting Dean’s as he does so.

 Dean does one of those comically loud swallows that only happen in the movies, and Cas deliberately casts his eyes to the very empty other side of the room.

“Where’s Sam?” he asks, bending down to rifle through his duffel bag at the foot of the bed Dean’s currently glued to.

“Sam?” he barely squeezes out, not understanding the syllable.

Cas stops searching to level a stare at Dean, and if Dean weren’t currently operating on less than optimal brain power, he’d probably register the slight smirk that curls at the corner of Cas’ mouth.

“Your brother,” he says mildly, before recommencing the rummaging.

“I, oh- uh, yeah,” Dean clears his throat, and he doesn’t mean to overshoot the tone fix, but suddenly he sounds like he’s been crawling through a desert for days. “Went for booze. For the case.”

“Right,” Cas says. He pulls a pair of jeans out of the duffle, scrutinizing them. “Are these yours or mine?” he asks, holding them up. They’re still pretty wrinkled from the drive, and Dean’s mind is elsewhere.

“I’unno,” he manages.

Cas digs through the bag and grabs the rest of his clothes, before retreating back into the bathroom.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he says, and before Dean thinks to ask what that means, the door is shut again.

Dean takes the last beer out of their cooler and downs it.

***

The bathroom door opens, but Cas doesn’t emerge.

“Dean,” he says.

“What,” and Dean thanks whatever or whoever’s looking out for him that he actually sounds reasonably normal this time.

“These aren’t my jeans,” Cas says.

“Well the solution to that is to come grab a pair of jeans that _are_ yours, don’t you think?”

In lieu of answering, Cas walks out of the bathroom somehow even less clothed than before. He’s wearing a dark grey pair of boxer briefs that Dean immediately averts his eyes from, staring determinedly at a spot firmly fixed just above Cas’ shoulder.

“Cas,” he says warningly. They had the nudity talk early on after Cas permanently moved into the bunker, prompted by some close calls and a flash of skin that Dean, to this day, still isn’t entirely convinced _wasn’t_ a surprisingly tanned buttcheck. The talk was definitely more for his sake than anyone else’s, but he didn’t bring that up at the emergency roommate meeting they had later that night after Dean shut himself in his bedroom and frowned down at his dick for an hour.

Cas has the pair of jeans he took draped over one arm, looking somewhat consternated.

“Uh… You brought more than one pair of jeans, right?” he asks.

The sudden shift from snarky asshole Cas into tentative tip toe Cas (who still isn’t wearing any clothes, damn it, because Cas is just a complex guy apparently) is stark enough that Dean’s brows draw together, but not immediately worrying enough that Dean takes his eyes off the safe spot.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Why?”

There’s a slight rustle, and then the pair of jeans lands in Dean’s lap.

“It took me… a minute. To realize they weren’t mine,” Cas says hesitantly.

Dean checks over the jeans, trying not to think about how just five minutes ago they were on Cas’ body.

“What are you talking abou… oh.” Dean’s staring at a rip along the inner thigh that goes all the way down to the knee.

“I know money’s tight right now, I really do apologize,” Cas says sincerely.

Dean’s throat is very tight as he inspects the hole. It literally looks like the seams were pried apart. His gaze flicks down as briefly as he’ll allow himself to Cas’ bare thighs, and then back to the hole in his jeans. He looks at his own thigh, not exactly insubstantial, and then back to the hole.

“Uhh,” he says hoarsely. He clears his throat. “Don’t worry about it, man.”  

Cas’ thighs were strong enough to literally rip through a pair of his jeans.

Dean’s fried. He’s all fried. Everything’s fried. Someone just spilled soda on his keyboard because he’s spitting sparks and shutting down.  All those years, Cas was been walking around under that fucking bastard blanket of a coat, and for what? Was he smuggling great slabs of all Canadian beef across the border? Selling bootleg DVDs out of the inner pockets?  Taking pulpy PI jobs on the side?

Whatever it is, Dean has been missing out. It’s not like he’s unaware that Cas is built like a standing rectangle. The guy has been walking around in jeans and sweatpants and t-shirts and plaid for months now.

But that notion of Cas being, frankly, _too beefy_ for Dean’s jeans, demonstrated so very clearly here today, well. That little tidbit just slots right into place like the final Trivial Pursuit pie piece.

Dean’s prize for winning is going to be presented by his dick apparently, because it’s suddenly very interested in the awards ceremony.

He stumbles off the bed and by Cas, trips a little when he’s treated to a tight band of brief against the small of Cas’ back, then shuts himself in the bathroom and spread eagles against the door, as if that’ll somehow keep the tension from following him in.

_Played it damn cool_ , he tells himself, sweating. _You were totally a cucumber in another life, buddy_.

“I was all done in there,” Cas dryly informs him from the room. “You’re more than welcome to take your turn.”

Dean clears his throat extensively.

“Thanks,” he says weakly.

He’s about to turn on the shower when Cas speaks again.

“So what’s the agreed upon sleeping arrangement?” he asks.

Dean stares at the ceiling and closes his eyes. He lets out a very long breath.

“Think we’re just gonna stick to how we normally do it,” he says, immediately cringing at the phrasing.

“You and I sleeping together?” Cas clarifies, and Dean stares lifelessly into the tub drain. He’s doomed, and there’s no way Cas isn’t smirking like an asshole out there.

“Yeah, Cas,” he sighs, rubbing a defeated hand across his jaw. “That’s the plan.”

***

It’s a mandatory, no-frills jerk off. Definitely not the most fun Dean’s ever had in the shower, but, like a contestant on a reality TV show, he’s not here to make friends. He has a goal, and he’s going to reach it: Namely, make it out of this hunt without catching Cas’ eye and bending over the nearest piece of furniture. If he has to share a bed with Cas, so be it. He’s done it before. Maybe not in a bed as small as this one, or since their little dalliance in the bunker gym, but damn it, he’s an adult. He’ll share this tiny bed with this full grown man.

He’s just gonna jerk off first, is all.

It’s a quick slick of the dick, and wham bam thank you ma’am. Dean’s spent the last thirty plus years in tiny motel rooms learning how to efficiently jerk off, and tonight is no exception.

He soaps up, washes behind his ears, and doesn’t think about Cas. He shampoos, gets soap in his eyes, rinses, and doesn’t think about Cas. He towels off, throws on some pajamas, and exits the bathroom, and has no choice _but_ to think about Cas, since he’s currently flopped dead in the center of the bed they’re supposed to be sharing.

He swats Cas’ (now clothed, thankfully) ass with his towel.

“Hey, hate to break it to you, but you gotta make room for one more.”

Cas doesn’t actually move, but he bristles in that familiar way Dean’s come to know and usually be annoyed by. Very slowly, he rolls over so that he’s on the left side of the bed, leaving the right side open.

Naturally, the right side is crammed up against the wall that blocks off the bathroom.

“Okay, that’s progress, but how about you roll over to the other side there, chief.”

“No.”

Dean sighs.

“Okay, then get up so I can get in.”

Instead, Cas pats the spot beside him with eyes like a lazy cat, and Dean takes a deep breath.

“You wanna play it that way?” He asks. “Then so be-”

“Yes,” Cas interrupts him mildly. He pulls back the covers on Dean’s side and glances up at him. “You know Sam’s not here, right?”

Dean coughs. “Uh, yeah. So?”

“No reason,” Cas says, dry as a bone. “Just an observation.”

Dean carefully puts a knee on the bed, eyeing the distance between his knee and Cas’ feet with hawk-like intensity.

“Yeah, well, good for you,” he says. He crab walks to his position on the bed, trying not to make it blatantly obvious that he’s sliding along the wall like he’s walking along the highest ledge of a skyscraper. He can feel Cas’ eyes on him, and his neck is hot.

He awkwardly falls into place beside Cas and immediately starts fidgeting, afraid what will happen if he just sits still. There’s a quiet noise from somewhere above him, kind of a snuffling sound, and Dean looks up at Cas, offended.

“Did you just laugh at me?”

Cas’ expression immediately turns serious.

“Of course not,” he assures Dean gravely. “That doesn’t sound remotely like something I’d do.”

Dean frowns at his pillow. He’s been whining about Cas getting a sense of humor for months, but no one seems to share his concerns. He knows, though. Oh, he knows. Cas is already dangerous enough without a slick sense of humor. 

“Oh, no, not at all,” Dean simpers, shoving his pillow up against the headboard and leaning against it. He’d rather play petulant than leering bedfellow, so he crosses his arms and stares at the TV pushed up against the wall, only belatedly realizing Cas hasn’t turned it on yet and- he cranes his neck and yep- the remote is on the nightstand next to Cas’ side of the bed.

Dean slowly lets his head fall back against the wall and stares determinedly at the ceiling.

“Cas,” he says neutrally.

“Yes, Dean.”

“Can you please pass me the television remote.”

Obviously Cas is going to make this hard because Cas is Cas and Dean is in the current unfortunate situation of having a renegade dick. He’ll make Dean reach across him for it and then they’re gonna have that _moment_ , where Dean’s breath hitches and Cas is so warm and welcoming beneath him and he’s gonna reach up and touch a hand to Dean’s elbow, his wrist, maybe, and Dean is gonna lose it because he’s _so_ fucking easy for Cas, he’s gonna melt like a snowflake on a tongue and they’ll barely be touching each other but Dean will be gone, swept up in the sensation, trying to crawl out of his own existence because he’s so desperately aching to touch Cas, for Cas to touch him, he’s got it bad bad bad and it’s fucking him up it’s just a lean, for god’s sake, but he wants to play into Cas’ hand, wants to feel Cas looking at him like there’s nothing else in the room, nothing else in the world, just the point of contact between their bodies, the tension that hangs around them as perpetually as precipitation hangs around the Pacific Northwest, wants to stew in it, bask in it, fuck in-

“Here.”

Cas hands him the remote. Like it’s no big thing.

Dean feels his mouth drop open rather ungracefully, as a very obvious pang of disappointment manifests in him.

“Thanks,” he says, and kind of slides down in his seat a bit, feeling like a total creep. Of course this is preferable to the alternative. The whole point of not acknowledging the gym incident is to get this friendship back on track, because that’s what they are. Friends. Buddies. Pals. Who just. Pal around.

He turns on the TV and tries to ignore the way his head lolls towards Cas’ shoulder every once in a while.  

***

Sam comes back, carrying a brown paper bag under one arm.

“What a business expense,” he says disbelievingly, thunking it down on the table as he shrugs off his jacket, trying to hide a yawn with one enormous paw.

Dean and Cas are still slumped on the bed, watching old reruns of CSI. They took bets at the beginning of the episode on who the killer was, and Dean’s cashing in.

“I told ya, Cas, they make it look like the neglected spouse, but it’s _always_ the business partner. Or a hitman.”

Cas is staring at the TV with narrowed eyes, and Dean snorts, patting him on the shoulder.

“I spent my entire life watching reruns of procedural crime dramas on shitty motel TVs,” he says, making sure to remove his hand after an appropriate period of time has passed. “The game was rigged from the start… Buddy,” he adds as an unconvincing afterthought.

Sam rolls his eyes as he passes, closing the bathroom door behind him.

“This is ridiculous,” Cas says grumpily, confirming him for sore loser of the night.

“Awwww, Cas,” Dean chides, ruffling his hair good-naturedly. Watching dumb TV with Cas never fails to put him in good mood, and even though the mattress is shit and Dean had to hastily jerk off in the shower earlier like he was thirteen again, he tries not to overlook the fact that he now has a best friend he can do dumb best friend stuff with.

That’s what it all comes down to, he thinks. Cas is his best friend. Easily the closest friend he’s ever had. Obviously a wire or two got crossed somewhere along the way, but that can be fixed.

For one very, very brief moment, Dean manages to convince himself that’s all it is. That this entire setup is completely platonic, and all the blips will be smoothed as easily as ironing the creases out of their suits after a day on the job.

For one very, _very_ brief moment.

***

In the middle of the night, Dean wakes up.

He doesn’t understand what’s happening at first, or why he even woke up in the first place. Behind the curtains, it’s still pitch black out, and despite sleeping on a crappy motel bed, he’s actually pretty damn comfortable, weirdly enough.

Comfortable and… oh, fuck. _Nestled_.

The arm that’s currently slung across his waist? Cas’.

The _dick_ pressed very insistently to the crease of Dean’s ass?

Yep that’s Cas’.

They’ve shared beds more than once over the past couple years and this is at the pretty far end of the proper Dean and Cas Best Buddies Bed Sharing Book of Etiquette. Way back when they shared the first couple of times, Dean definitely laid down said rule book with an unnecessary bang, but that was to preserve his own sanity, mostly to ensure something like the current situation would never happen. And for a long time, it didn’t. Dean thought he was out of the woods.

And then, the sparring happened. Which has apparently not only fucked him up during daylight hours, but also sent some kind of signal to his brain to start emitting the _spoon me_ pheromone that Dean’s spent the majority of his life pretending he was always deficient in. Because that’s exactly what needed to be added to this whole messed up equation. Knowing how Cas feels when he’s sleep-warm and soft and pressed against Dean’s back in the dark of a shitty motel room. Even worse is Dean being acutely aware that that’s the reason being in the dark of a shitty motel room has become markedly less shitty.

_Platonic_ , Dean thinks blearily, as those damn alarm bells start blaring again. He stares at the wall only a few inches away from his face, trying to think about anything but what’s pressed against him. He’s afraid to even breath, scared that the slightest friction is going to turn into full on rutting if he doesn’t handle himself like a goddamn gentleman here.

Cas is definitely still asleep even if other parts of him are more active, and unfortunately that’s stirring similar parts in Dean to attention.

Cas’ palm has somehow slipped under Dean’s shirt in the night, resting warmly against his stomach. With growing horror, Dean realizes that Cas’ hand is low enough that if he shifts in the wrong direction, Cas is going to be shaking hands with something that he probably shouldn’t be introduced to when he’s fucking _unconscious_.

Oh, this is bad. Despite the way the rest of his system is groaning to life in a very interested manner, his brain is in full on panic mode. He’s never been much of a prude (he likes to say), but really, this is uncouth, even for him. The urge to grind back against Cas is bordering on some primal, caveman shit, and the way Cas is tucked up against him on both sides is satisfactorily scratching his tactility itch for the first time in… well, fuck. Forever, probably.   

Cas’ breath is hot and aroused against the back of his neck, and Dean has the urge there, too, to move until his hits flesh. To line himself up with Cas from top to bottom, to be fully enveloped by the heat he’s so desperately craving. Neither of them are wearing exceptionally thick pajama bottoms, and Dean is both regretting and lauding that choice with every fibre of his being as the sheer warmth of Cas against him proves absolutely overwhelming. Cas’ hand presses more insistently to Dean’s soft belly, and Dean has to swallow back the moan that threatens to escape. He’s terrified to move and potentially turn this one man face-meltingly awkward situation into a two man face-meltingly awkward situation (or, more accurately, a face-meltingly awkward situation that would only get worse if Dean knew Cas was actually awake for it).

He thinks, maybe he can wait it out. Maybe it’ll all blow over in a couple of minutes and Dean can avoid the myriad of horrible ways this whole thing could play out if he can just keep his hands to himself and try to act like a goddamn gentleman. Good Guy Dean, that’s him, letting his unconscious bedmate use the crease of his ass as a masturbatory device. He’s deriving zero pleasure from the situation, simply doing a favor for a friend, no matter what his flushed face and clenched fists may say otherwise.

And then Cas outright _grinds_ up against him, everything shorts out, and Dean has to clamp one hand over his mouth and the other involuntarily slams up against the wall in front of him because if he doesn’t find somewhere to expend that pent up energy he’s gonna end up doing something Sam, in the next bed over, would disown him for doing in a room he’s also sleeping in.

Unfortunately for Sam, and (un)fortunately for Dean, depending on how you look at it, that slam was apparently loud enough to rouse him, and Dean hears the springs of his bed creak (at the moment, sounding similar to what Dean imagines the gates of hell would sound like as they swing open) as he sits up.

“Dean?” he asks mushily.

Dean, who currently has three-fourths of a very guilty erection and approximately six million neurons firing, is not exactly in the right state of mind to also be dealing with a barely-conscious brother.

“Sam,” he almost hisses, desperate not to wake Cas as he carefully slides a hand against where Cas has a grip on him. “Go back to bed.” He gently prods at Cas’ fingertips, ignoring the goddamn ridiculous part of his brain that’s encouraging him to interlock their fingers, until Cas murmurs something in his ear and slowly eases his grip.

Across the room, Sam makes a very confused noise. “Blurgh?”

Dean inches his way out of the curve of Cas’ body, only mourning the loss of contact until he realizes what he’s doing and tells himself to shut the fuck up. Like earlier in the night, he flattens himself to the wall as best he can, knee-walking his way towards the end of the bed. Every step sinks him at an awkward angle, and when he hits a particularly deep portion of the mattress, he loses his balance completely and pitches over the end of the bed, falling forehead first onto the rough motel carpet.

“Dean?” Sam asks again, still half-asleep but most likely only a stone’s throw from grabbing his gun and lighting up the place.

Dean briefly considers the possibility of the floor opening up and swallowing him to alleviate his suffering, but the universe has never been that kind to him.

“Shit- I just- I fell out of bed,” he says, trying to sound at least 200% less compromised than he currently is, more likely coming across as if he just slipped a disc.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Weren’t you… weren’t you sleeping against the wall?” Sam asks sluggishly, operating on about the same level of intelligence most people do at 3 in the morning.

“Go back to bed, Sam!” Dean snaps in a whisper, far too shrilly for his own good. He stumbles to his feet, feeling his way to the bathroom, convinced it’s his only refuge. He’s a nanosecond away from closing the door and collapsing onto the toilet seat in undignified grief, when he hears his name again.

“Dean?”

This time, naturally, from Cas.

Because of course no one listens when he calls them to dinner at home, but oh, as soon as a horribly embarrassing situation rears its ugly head in the middle of the night, here they both are, nosy fucking Nellies.

Dean completely ignores him and closes and locks the bathroom door, retreating to his throne of grief, dropping his head into hands.

“Oh my god,” he mumbles, staring at his lap and feeling incredibly betrayed. “Fuck you,” he says.

Because his dick is the problem. The problem definitely isn’t how much he always wants Cas around, or how it feels like things have finally slotted into place when he stands too close, or how his hand has started to linger longer and longer whenever he touches Dean. The problem definitely isn’t how much he missed having Cas curled around him the moment he started to edge away tonight. The problem _definitely_ isn’t just how much Dean wants to share a bed with Cas every night.

He knows he makes a hell of a sad sight, sitting here glumly on a cold toilet seat lid, but at least he knows what the problem _isn’t_.

***

Dean sleeps the rest of the night in the bath tub, because he has dignity. It’s quite the sentiment, but one his back certainly doesn’t appreciate in the morning as it twinges every time he lifts his coffee to take a sip.

When Sam leaves the room to grab something from the Impala, Cas fixes Dean with a stare over his own coffee.

“Last night-” he starts, and then abruptly finishes as Dean does a spit take he’d actually be pretty impressed by if he wasn’t busy choking on hot coffee.

“No,” he says between coughs. “No, nope. Nope.” He bends over, thumping himself on the chest as his eyes start to water.

“Dean-”

“Nnnnnnnnnnoooooooooooo,” Dean says hoarsely. “No, no, no, no no no.”

“Dean, you slept in the _bath tub_.”

Dean coughs one more time.

“Nope,” he says. “Well. Yes. But nope.”

“Dean, I’m sorry if-”

Sam chooses that moment to walk back in, and Dean spreads his arms wide, speaking over Cas.

“Sam Winchester! My brother Sam, back in the motel room. Welcome back, Sammy.”

Sam barely spares him a glance, but Dean can feel the eye roll. Cas stares at him balefully.

“So, we got some hidebehinds to gank or what?” Dean asks the room at large. When he walks by Cas, he claps a hand on his shoulder. Much quieter, he says, “we’re good, Cas.”

Which they are. Good friends. Good buddies. Good pals.

Another problem it’s definitely not? Just how thin that excuse is wearing.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i definitely did not realize it's been over a month since I updated y i k e s sorry abt that.
> 
> so the hesitant plan is there's one more chapter after this one, which will hopefully take a reasonable amount of time to write as opposed to the straight 90 degree climb this chapter felt like.

Luck must imitate life, because Dean has drawn the short straw in both.

He lost the “who has to be the hidebehind bait” rock paper scissors three way, which means he’s the only one who doesn’t get to knock back a couple beers before heading out after a day of interviewing disgruntled loggers. It’s a pretty standard case, two dudes missing so far but no one wants to shut down production because the only thing logging companies like more than logs is money. The two guys who were taken were both at the site after dark doing some kind of follow up work after everyone else had left, and neither of them showed for work the next morning. Most of the loggers they interviewed today mentioned that for long portions of their days on this site, they’ve felt like they were being watched. Since hidebehinds are big on stalking, big on killing, and big on being nocturnal, it feels like a pretty open and shut case. It’s just a matter of shutting it.

Now, Dean’s a professional. He knows how to compartmentalize. He’s worked cases perfectly fine while experiencing entire spectrums of emotional turbulence. He’s worked through grief, depression, numb hazes, bouts of rage, you name it. If it’s ugly, Dean’s probably worked a case while grappling with it.

He’s also worked cases with Cas before. Multiple times, in fact. And for the most part, he’s kept himself in check. A solid B-, if he does say so himself. Yeah, there’s the occasional check-out, the occasional hey-Cas-can-you-lift-this-extra-heavy-object-it’s-very-vital-to-the-investigation-also-mind-if-I-watch, but those are just minor instances Dean can easily wave off. It doesn’t take much to rationalize, really. Frankly, what kind of guy _wouldn’t_ like watching his best friend lift an anvil with all the ease of picking a daisy. So what if it gets him a little hot under the collar. He’s only human.

However, similar to the bed sharing debacle of last night, this is the first time Dean’s worked a case with Cas post That Thing in the Gym Plus Subsequent Incidents, and unfortunately for him, the list of Subsequent Incidents seems to be only getting longer. It also doesn’t help that they’re posing as USDA inspectors, which means instead of the usual suit, Cas is wearing red and black plaid under the leather jacket they picked up for him once the first snowfall of the year got announced. He’s also got a couple days’ worth of stubble darkening his jaw, and Dean’s done his best to avoid any and all eye contact with him since the awkwardness of their conversation this morning. The last thing he needs on this hunt is to get distracted by wondering what kind of raspy beard burn Cas would leave behind, and accidentally get eaten as a result.

They kick around in the motel room for a couple hours after their interviews, Dean very determinedly watching more fuzzy reruns of procedural crime dramas and pointedly not looking over every time he feels Cas shift beside him on the bed. 

At one point, Sam offers to go pick up dinner and Dean almost smacks Cas in the face from turning so quickly, half-yelling, “NO,” before he can think of an actual normal way to react to the situation.

Sam stares at him, his eyebrows raised.

“Uh,” Dean says gracefully, “I’ll get it.”

Sam nods slowly. “Okie dokie,” he says. “Glad you’re so enthusiastic about the pizza of northern Minnesota.”

Dean’s sitting in the Impala staring at ceiling when the passenger side door opens and Sam slides in.

“What-” he starts, but Sam cuts him off.

“I’m doing the world at large a favor by initiating this conversation. Drive.”

Dean puts the Impala in reverse and backs out of the spot, easing them onto the road. Sam waits a good thirty seconds- a surprising display of restraint, for him- before saying anything.

“So,” he finally prompts.

“‘ _So_ ,’” Dean mocks.   

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Did you and Cas have a fight or what?”

Does sparring that leads to dry humping in the bunker gym count?

“No,” Dean says, as naturally as possible. He’s only safe right now because Sam doesn’t know he slept in the bath tub. Sam doesn’t know a lot of things that go on between him and Cas, which is definitely for both their sakes.

“Well then what the fuck is up, Dean? You’ve been acting like a spooked horse for days now.”

Dean makes a dismissive noise. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

Sam shoots him an unimpressed look. “When Cas walked into the kitchen the other day, you dropped a steak knife and almost impaled my foot.”

“Maybe your foot shouldn’t have been in the way of my steak knife.”

“My foot was on the floor!”

“Yeah, well, so was my steak knife.”

Dean keeps his eyes forward, but he can feel Sam glaring at him. To be fair, his ire is justified to an extent. That day, Cas had walked into the kitchen wearing one of Dean’s old and worn henley’s, and jeans from a local thrift store with more holes than a truck stop bathroom stall. His hair was wild in that very particular it-looks-like-I-just-had-sex-even-though-I-didn’t way that only Cas can pull off, and admittedly, he may have been distracted enough that he forgot he was holding an immensely sharp object. It was a brief encounter, one he didn’t plan on having again, so he locked himself in his room for the rest of the day and most definitely didn’t put that time to use by masturbating.

Sam runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look I know, relatively speaking, Cas hasn’t been a human for very long. It was just me and you for so long, I understand if some… _tensions_ crop up every now and-”

Dean lets out a snort that threatens to turn into full blown hysterical laughter, but he reins it in because he really doesn’t want to crash his car.

“Tensions,” he repeats, so flatly the word goes concave. “Yeah, something like that.”

Sam rolls his eyes and primly adjusts his shirt. “Well, fine. Whatever. I’m just trying to make sure no one gets gored by hidebehinds tonight because _some_ of us are too busy moping to pay attention.”

“Hey,” Dean says indignantly, “I’m the bait here. I’m the one who doesn’t get a good ol’ swig of the hidebehind repelling adult drink, so back off bub. It’s your job to make sure I don’t end up a midnight snack.”

“I’m just saying, Dean. You’ve gotta get your head in the game.”

“Yeah, thanks, Troy Bolton.”

“How have you been sleeping?” Sam redirects. “If you’re still having trouble, maybe that’s part of the problem.”

Dean doesn’t know how to explain that his question-mark induced insomnia has more or less turned into lack-of-Cas’-dick induced insomnia, so instead he grunts vaguely.

“Sleeping’s never really been my strong suit anyway,” he says.

“Did you ever end up asking Cas for help?” Sam asks, totally well-intentioned but it makes Dean’s ears ring.

“Yeah,” he says shortly. “Didn’t help.”

Sam grimaces. “That’s too bad.”

“Yup,” Dean says, trying not to sound too self-aware, “Real unfortunate.”

***

 They eat pizza, and Sam and Cas each knock back a couple beers- not enough to get them buzzed, but enough that the hidebehind will stay away from them and hopefully focus on the unfortunately sober Dean. They all grab walkie-talkies and compasses and flashlights and slide a gun into their waistbands, and then they head out. Hidebehinds don’t have any specific weaknesses barring alcohol, but in their experience, so long as you put enough bullets in one, it’ll stay down.

On the drive out to the site, Sam suddenly snaps his fingers from the back seat.

“Shit,” he says. “We forgot to check if there was another room open for Cas tonight, in case we have to stay over again.”

Dean keeps his eyes on the road. There’s a brief, awkward silence, before Sam fills it.

“Oh, well. We can just ask when we get b-”

“It’s okay,” Dean interrupts, because he’s a fucking moron who doesn’t just look a gift horse in the mouth, but fucking rides it down the main drag. “Don’t worry about it.”

He can see Cas looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and deliberately ignores it. Cas has been pretty quiet today, his tone clipped whenever he speaks. But Dean’s spent a lot of years making a worrying amount of eye contact with whoever’s occupying the front seat at the time, and he’s finished indulging in such a dangerous practice. He’s just being a responsible driver when he purposely misses the deadpan look that now settles on Cas’ face.

The beer, while not its intended purpose, has definitely loosened Sam’s tongue a little. “But you were so adamant about it last night,” he says. “In fact, if I recall, you were being a big fat baby about the whole situation.”

“Okay, yeah, if you wanna be a drama queen about it, then fine, I was being a ‘big fat baby’. Money’s tight, Sam, so fuck you. I’m saving us a couple bucks.”

“The United States of America thanks you for your service,” Sam mumbles prissily.

Right, so maybe hidebehind cases aren’t always as fun as he prefers to remember them. Someone always has to play the DD.

“That must be one comfortable bath tub,” Cas observes dryly from the passenger seat. Usually at least a hint of humor leaks into his jibes, but this one is tumbleweed-rolling-across-a-desert dry.

Dean, being the keen observer that he is, ignores this and points a finger at him.

“You shut the fuck up.”

***

So. The thing about walking alone through a dark forest in the middle of the night with only a couple of totally-not-buzzed guys watching your back from half a football field’s length away is that it leaves a lot of room in the ol’ brainpain for thoughts to start getting thunk. Since approximately 60% of hunting is just waiting around for something to happen, this isn’t considered an isolated incident by any stretch of the imagination.

Usually, though, Dean doesn’t have much to think about. Or, he _does_ have things to think about, but they’re things he’d rather not think about, so he buries it all beneath near-lethal amounts of coffee and inarticulate, overcompensatory rage when he fucks up the crossword he was doing in pen (“Living on the edge, Sammy”). 

But right now, he’s in a dark forest with no coffee and no crosswords and nothing to keep himself distracted from his own thoughts.

His radio occasionally crackles and he catches snippets of the conversation between Sam and Cas a ways back, but that doesn’t do much for him expect make him stand up a little straighter when he hears them talking about the bunker gym again.

So he’s thinking. About the events of the past week or so, yes. About Cas, yes. But also about other things.

He lives a life where he rarely gets a chance to slow down. It’s always save this, destroy that, fuck up them, rinse and repeat. Dean’s half-convinced at this point that he could start an apocalypse in the produce section of a grocery store if he tried hard enough. It just seems to be the way of the world that him and Sam and Cas track destruction everywhere they go, like mud in a clean foyer.

It’s kind of a shitty feeling, actually, when life just becomes that thing that happens in between apocalypses.

Things have calmed down, though, relative to the Winchester definition of the word. They still hunt. They still have the occasional brush with death. They still get captured and tied up by baddies and free themselves by slicing through their bonds with conveniently loose nails in the floorboards.  

It’s been a while since any kind of apocalypse has lingered on the horizon, barring that time a couple months ago when Cas revealed to the world at large that he liked putting ketchup on his mashed potatoes. Things are probably about as settled as they’re ever going to get, which certainly isn’t something to shake a stick at.

Whether they’re going to _stay_ settled or not is another question altogether. Dean can only hope. He doesn’t want to count his chickens, but there are only so many other places an apocalypse can come from at this point. Heaven and hell and purgatory are sealed up, after all. Unless aliens finally show or someone decides to launch a couple nukes (neither of which would be his problem), there’s not much big game left to put down.

Which is… nice. Not really something he’d ever given much thought, but thanks to recent events, he’s found it occupying his time more and more.

For example, Cas is here to stay, weird food combos and all. So what exactly is Dean’s plan to deal with that? Spend the rest of his life sleeping in bath tubs? Even by his already sad standards that’s pretty pathetic. But he’s been avoiding sitting down and actually thinking about _why_ he’s been avoiding Cas. Avoiding avoidance, a true Winchester trait.

Maybe start with a simple question: why has he been avoiding avoidance? _Because_ Cas is here to stay?

Yes.

Because Cas is someone who means an incredible amount to him and it would kill Dean to lose him?

Yes.

Because, and just spitballing here, he’s never wanted something put up his ass this bad and that’s kind of a foreign feeling but not near as foreign as he’d expected it to be?

Well, yes. But one crisis at a time. (Although that thought alone _does_ slot into place a lot of teenaged fantasies that involved Han Solo and a lot of adult fantasies that involved Dr. Sexy that Dean, maybe kind of desperately, used to write off as pure idolization and nothing else.)

There have been times throughout their relationship where Dean didn’t even think it was possible for him and Cas to stay friends, let alone get to the place they are now, where it feels like everything they went through was actually worth it because it lead them here ( _here_ currently being represented by a bath tub, sure, but that’s definitely a Dean problem as opposed to a Dean and Cas problem).

The thing is, Cas is family in every way that matters. He’s not going anywhere, he’s staked his claim here, for some stupid reason, with Sam and Dean.

“Any sign of it yet?” Cas’ voice crackles through the radio, making Dean jump and dissolving his train of thought. He grabs the radio out of his pocket and presses the button on the side.

“Nope. Trust me, when I run into it you won’t need the radio to know.”

“Dean, this area of the forest is pretty dense. Sam and I don’t have a good visual on you. Maybe we should-”

Somewhere off to his right, a twig snaps and Dean whips his head around, missing the rest of Cas’ sentence. The problem with hidebehinds, as the name would imply, is that they’re really good at hiding behind things, so whether that sound was just an animal or actually a large, powerful supernatural creature is anybody’s guess.

He presses the button on the radio again.

“Yeah, cancel that, you guys might want to start closing in.”

“Are you okay?” Buzzes through immediately, Cas’ voice urgent.

“I’ll be even better when you guys get up here,” Dean says, carefully making his way towards where the sound came from. “Just get me in your sights and hang back until-” He’s interrupted by another sound, this time from ahead of him in some thicker foliage. Dean shoves the radio back in his pocket, ignoring Cas’ panicked questions, and pulls out his Colt and moves slowly towards the sound. He can see a couple of the leaves quivering and holds his breath, keeping his aim steady. Sam and Cas shouldn’t have been that far behind, but it’s possible they drifted off course enough, even with the compass, that it’ll take them a minute.  He keeps his steps slow and measured, honing in on where he believes whatever-it-is is hiding.

From behind him, another twig snaps. Before he can turn around to investigate, a started fawn rockets out of the foliage in front of him, passing by him close enough to send him stumbling him back into something solid. He whips around, gun raised, only to find Cas, looking undoubtedly pissed, with Sam beside him.

Dean drops his gun to his side, holding a hand to his heart.

“Jesus,” he breathes, “Don’t sneak up on a guy like that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cas says in a voice that doesn’t sound very sorry at all. His eyes are bright and sharp in the moonlight, the barest hint of alcohol visible in the planes of his face. “Maybe we wouldn’t have had to if you actually kept your radio on. Since the whole point of having them is communicating with each other.” His glare turns pointed. “But what would you know about communication, right, Dean?”

“I…” Dean trails off, called out. Cas doesn’t let up, though, his gaze hard. Waiting for an answer.

Dean’s been so wrapped up in his own overactive dick’s imagination that he hasn’t even thought about how Cas must be feeling in all this. He knows he probably wouldn’t take too kindly to his sleeping partner spending the night in the bath tub just because they didn’t know how to roll over or shake him awake. He also probably wouldn’t have enjoyed a sweaty dry hump that resulted in days of awkward silences just because his sparring partner didn’t know how to make small talk like the rest of the people in the world who not-so-secretly want to spend the better part of the rest of their lives holding said sparring partner’s hand.

Cas will play coy if he thinks it’ll get him closer to what he wants, but he’s also terrifying when he decides to play it straight and demand answers, like he is right now. It’s a bad time to notice it, but he looks damn near ethereal in the moonlight.

“Uh…” Sam clears his throat awkwardly, looking between the two of them. “… What just happened here?”

“Could you give us a minute, please, Sam?” Cas asks flatly.

Sam’s eyes widen and his confusion deepens palpably.

“Uh, not really,” he says, “Do you think the middle of a monster hunt is really the time for you guys to do this?” he flaps a hand uselessly, “Whatever _this_ is?”

Dean sees his chance and takes it, retreating once more to the now metaphorical bath tub.

“Yeah,” he starts, “Cas, maybe now isn’t-”

“-the time?” Cas finishes for him. He steps forward slightly, bringing him closer to Dean. “You’re right. Please, Dean, pencil me in for an appointment at your leisure.”

Okay, so Cas has a point. Dean can sometimes get wrapped up in his own neurotic hellscape of deep seated intimacy issues that can manifest in many ways, the majority of which involve the unfortunate symptom of extreme dickishness. 

That’s fine. To put it charitably, Cas knows him pretty well. He probably understands. After all, it’s not like Cas is perfect, either. For one, he dumps his gross and sweaty socks all over the bunker. For two, the ketchup and mashed potato thing. For three, when he was an angel he always refused to go forward in time and bring back the winning lottery numbers, Biff-style.

But he puts up with Dean’s dumb ass, which means it’s time to nut up.

“Sam, give us a minute,” he says, and Sam gawks at him.

“Are you serious? There’s a huge furry bear monster thing out there in the woods somewhere, probably stalking you right now, and you’re asking for a _minute_?” 

“Sam.”

Sam stares into the middle distance, perhaps the longest sufferer.

“I can’t believe this,” he says faintly. “After all this time and the other shoe drops _here_. Of all places.”

Before Dean can say anything else, Sam lopes off, shaking his head minutely, seemingly lost in a haze of his older brother’s stupidity. 

They both watch him go, and then Cas’ gaze returns to Dean’s, expectant. The other 5% of Dean’s brain tries to remind him that yes, they are actually in the middle of a hunt right now so maybe he should make this snappy, but it’s not doing such a hot job. Not when it’s already overloaded by the line of Cas’ jaw covered in dark stubble and the way his leather jacket fits him not like they found at it some Podunk thrift store in Kansas, but like every nook and cranny was painstakingly measured by a goddamn professional tailor.

Cas is laser focused on him, that once-angelic intensity now only diluted to the point where it won’t blast Dean off into space anymore if put into practice. It still runs through him like jet fuel, though, hard and fast and burning bright where it thrums under his skin. Cas’ hands are thrust into the pockets of his jacket, his breath making a small cloud in front of him as he watches Dean, unrelenting.

Dean takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he admits. “I probably could have handled this better.”

 Cas stares at him.

“I disagree. I thought you handled a delicate situation admirably and took the appropriate measures to address it,” he says.

“Uh… Really?”

“No, Dean.”

Dean nods hastily.

“Right. Okay. Gotcha. Roger that. Uh.” He finally manages to tear his gaze away from Cas’ face, toeing at the loose dirt beneath his shoe. “Listen, I just… neughhhhh,” he sounds like a chainsaw that refuses to start, and he scrubs a hand over his face in frustration. “I swear okay, I’m having emotions. They’re just, um…” he casts around for a way to describe it, “… Bottlenecking.”

“Bottlenecking?”

At Cas’ tone, Dean looks back up and feels it again, the heat that only Cas can generate between them.

“Y’know, like. Fuck. Say you’re driving on a multi-lane highway and suddenly all the lanes merge? You’re just gonna be backed up for hours as everyone tries to get through, one car at a time. Or like in movies when two people are being petty little shits and both try to fit through a doorway at the same time and get stuck? It’s like, you throw too much at it at once, nothing’s gonna get out.”

Cas cocks his head, just barely.

“So what you’re saying is, you’re currently so overburdened with emotion that you can’t express any emotion at all.” Dean can’t even tell if he’s being mocked or not. He probably is.

“Not like I’m usually good at emotions or anything but yeah, that’s the gist.”

Cas takes another step closer, this time leaving no more than an inch of space between the two of them.

“There are no grimy gas station bathrooms around here, but later I’m sure we could discuss alternative ways to relieve some of that pressure,” he says. He’s definitely still poking fun, but Dean’s pretty sure the invitation is legit.

Regardless, callout number two is a doozy. Dean’s almost impressed his mental deterioration over the past couple weeks has been so blatantly obvious. Callout number two also ends with a proposition, however. A very tempting one that rings hilariously parallel to the offer that started this whole disastrous sequence of events.

He’s having trouble coming up with an answer that isn’t, “bluh?” (that bottlenecking is a bitch), and then, amazingly, perhaps inevitably, there’s a yell that’s immediately identifiable as Sam, and then a subsequent gunshot that has Dean’s big brother instincts kicking in like a foot to the nads.

He and Cas take off towards the sound- Sam didn’t go far, but he went far enough to be out of hearing range.

He’s standing alone when they reach him, gun in hand and smell of gunpowder in the air. He glares at them as they approach.

“Oh, is it my turn to get the bedroom eyes for not using my radio?”

 Dean rolls his eyes, reminding himself that blushing isn’t going to repel any hidebehinds.

“You okay? Did you see it?”

Sam sighs, wiping his palms off on his jeans.

“I saw something. Not sure if it was the hidebehind or not but it was definitely considering whether or not to take a chunk out of me.”

“Why would it come after you?” Cas asks. “You have alcohol in your system.”

Sam shrugs, leaning against the nearest tree. “The longer we’re out here and the more we sober up the less potent that defense is going to be. We’re losing the edge we had by focusing the target on Dean, if we haven’t already.”

“I love being the bait,” Dean chimes in for posterity’s sake.

Sam scowls at him. “ _You’re_ the one who thought it would be a good idea to have a heart to heart in the middle of a hidebehind hunt. You have no one but yourself to blame.”

“I sold my soul for you and this is the thanks I get.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean, again with the soul-”

“Would you two _shut the hell up_?” Cas snaps. He has a hand out towards them, staring off into the trees. The hunter instincts in him have flicked on like a light switch. “It’s still out there.”

“Now you’re paying attention,” Sam grumbles.

But Dean can feel it too, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. He’s been doing this long enough he knows not to ignore a gut feeling like this, no matter how badly he wants to shoot a sarcastic retort Sam’s way.

Three flashlight beams click back on in succession, as Sam, Dean, and Cas move so that they’re back to back, sweeping the tree line with their lights.

“So… this plan B then?” Dean asks.

“Only because plan A worked out so well,” Sam says.

“I’ll plan A _you_ ,” Dean mutters, low enough that Sam only shoots him a brief glare.

There’s a rustling of leaves from behind him, and Dean turns so that he’s shoulder to shoulder with Sam, Cas on the other side, pointing his light where the sound is coming from. Almost immediately, however, another rustling sound comes from a completely different direction, and Dean turns to meet that one instead.

“Shit,” he says. He can’t see them, but he can feel them circling. “There’s more than one.”

Hidebehinds really are lethally fast, and neither Dean nor Sam have ever actually fought more than one at a time.

“Any tips, Cas?” Sam asks, gun and flashlight pointed into the dark. It’s a useless endeavor. You don’t see a hidebehind until it decides it wants to be seen.

“No,” Cas says flatly. Then, “Yes. Don’t die.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and in a blatant display of lack of brain-to-mouth filter and an overabundance of adrenaline he laments, “This is the guy I’m in love with.”

Two heads turn whip-quick to look at him.

“What?” Sam and Cas say at the same time, and Dean’s stomach barely has the chance to fall into his shoes before two hidebehinds charge out of the darkness at them from different directions.

Multiple shots ring out, but hidebehinds are notoriously agile for all their bigfoot-esque physique and none of the bullets seem to make contact. Dean hits the deck, and feels Sam and Cas follow suit as the three of them bail in separate directions. Dean pops up a couple feet away and manages to get a shot off that startles one away from Cas, where it drops onto all fours and sprints into the woods, only to return seconds later coming straight for Dean.

Dean barely dives out of the way in time, hearing another couple shots ring out from Sam’s side of the ring. He lands hard on his side and hears the crack of his head on a protruding rock before he feels it. There’s a wetness on his temple and his vision starts to swim almost immediately. He hears Cas yell his name and more shots light up the woods as he leans against a nearby tree to help himself stand up.

Unfortunately, Sam happens to share a similar body type and crop of hair with these fucking things, so all Dean can see through his current Dutch angle point of view is two tall hairy things dancing around each other about fifty yards away. As he struggles to take aim, Dean reminds himself to use this information to coerce Sam into finally cutting his damn hair when they get back home.

Cas’ flashlight beam is flying all over the place, but all Dean needs is the brief second it lands on Sam and the hidebehind, and he’s able to take his shot. Judging by the subsequent roar, he hit it in a place that really hurt.

He’s about to turn to check on Cas when something smashes into him from behind, knocking him to the ground.  The forest floor is soft enough here that his nose doesn’t get broken, but his already injured head protests, something throbbing away in his skull as if it’s trying to tunnel its way out. He tries to stand up, but something heavy and hot that smells like wet dog hovers over him, and he tries not to gag when he sees a huge bead of warm saliva running down his shoulder. He doesn’t have his gun on him, having lost it from the hit, so he searches the ground in front of him for a rock, a stick, anything that’ll buy him a couple seconds. Black is starting to edge in at the corner of his vision, and the familiar nausea that comes with passing out starts churning in his stomach.

He feels a huge paw wrap around his calf and he kicks back, hitting flesh. There’s an angry snarl from above, and then something much more powerful than a paw latches onto the back of his jacket, the teeth shredding through both layers he’s wearing. He’s yanked upwards, head swimming with the speed of it, and can just barely make out Cas and Sam fighting off the other hidebehind a little ways away.

 Cas looks around, and when he sees Dean, his eyes widen. He starts heading towards him, but the hidebehind he’s fighting charges at him, forcing him backwards. For some weird reason, Dean thinks he salutes Cas before the black closes in fully, taking him under.

***

He’s barely conscious as the hidebehind drags him through the forest. However, he _is_ conscious enough to realize just how fucking uncomfortable it is to be carried by the scruff of his neck. The toes of his boots are just barely dragging through the dirt, and he watches the dark forest in front of him pass by in strange, pulsating waves, interrupted by snatches of grey.

Maybe this is the universe finally taking pity on his dumb ass and sending him to the great bath tub in the sky, because even a generous universe would have to be grimacing at his more-cringeworthy-than-usual existence over the past couple weeks.

It’s actually a comforting thought when paired with the comparatively sour realization that he’s most likely being taken to a cave to have his intestines eaten by what’s essentially a giant hairy dog that sometimes walks like a person.

He can feel the blood from his head wound dripping off his face, and the rhythmic tone it sets floods everything grey again.

***

He wakes up in, yes, a pitch black cave, lying on what he can only imagine is a horrifyingly large pile of bones, judging by the way something pointy is currently sticking in between his ribs. He moves a hand carefully down to get it out of the way, and yep, judging by the curve of it, that would be a broken rib bone that’s currently digging into his alive one. Hilarious.

The bones clack with his movement, and from somewhere in the cave, a warning growl reverberates. Not that it matters how much he pisses it off, really. One way or another he’s dinner, it’s just a matter of how soon.

 He tries to roll over as silently as he can to a more comfortable position, and he feels something much more rounded dig into his side this time. Doing his best to stay quiet, he reaches down to feel for what it is, and realizes with a jolt of hope that somehow, his radio is still in his pocket. _Suck it Cas_ , he thinks as he digs it out. Up ahead somewhere, he hears the hidebehind start tearing into something else, the sound of cracking bones making Dean’s stomach turn.

The radio isn’t in the best shape. A few of the components are loose and the tip of the antennae has broken off. Dean sends up a quick prayer to the big guy upstairs, only because he doesn’t know who the patron saint of walkie talkies is. He turns the volume dial as low as he can without turning it off, holds his breath, and presses the button three times in a row.

Of course, this plan only works if the following criteria are met: One, Sam and Cas are still alive. Two, their fight with the other hidebehind is finished, or if it’s not, they’re in a position where one of them can hear the radio beeping and catalogue what that means while they’re trying to avoid being gored. Three, the radio is still on. And four, that Dean’s radio still works.

Suffice to say, escaping from the baddies is a lot easier when they get tied up near those conveniently placed floorboard nails.

Dean waits, doing his best to keep his breathing even. The little red light on his radio is still blinking, and he’s taking that as a positive sign. If Sam and Cas are in a precarious position, he doesn’t want to blow their cover. Besides, the beeps only tell them he’s alive. He has no idea how far away he is, and he can’t even see any light that indicates a cave opening anywhere.

As he lies there and listens to the hidebehind continue its meal, he can feel the pain in his head start setting back in. It’s definitely not the worst concussion he’s ever had, but it’s also not going to be fixed by popping a couple Tylenol and slapping a Band-Aid over it like he does with most bumps and bruises. He can’t tell exactly how much blood he has on its face, but it feels like a lot. He’s pretty sure one of his eyes is glued shut.

While he’s here, he might as well dwell. It’s not like he’s got much else to do.

He told Cas he loves him- before he cracked his head on that rock, no less, so he has no excuse. That’s pretty fucked up, right? In front of Sam too, yikes. He’s really batting a thousand here.

Not that it’s not true. Kind of. Maybe. Possibly. Not that it’s not _not_ true.  He’s getting lost in the double and triple negatives here.

Yeah, he loves Cas. Fuck it, he’s probably gonna die here so whatever. The only person he’s admitting it to is himself (and Sam, and Cas, but it was a fraught moment so they probably totally didn’t hear him, right?)

Here at the potential end of his life, he can feel the perspective settling in like a cat on the face of its sleeping owner. Declarations of love usually only work when they’re said out loud and there’s another person around to hear them, and neither of those conditions are met here, where Dean’s only companions are the thing that’s going to eat him and whatever the thing that’s going to eat him is currently eating. Neither would appreciate the sentiment, he feels.

Cas probably would, since he’s the intended recipient and all. It likely wouldn’t make up for Dean being a fucking moron these past couple weeks, but then again, he’s always been a fucking moron and that- one of his defining characteristics, mind- hasn’t seemed to be able to scare Cas off yet, so who knows. Maybe he finds it endearing.

At the very least, he probably should have kissed Cas. If he’s being honest, though, he probably should have kissed Cas in the past couple of weeks. If he’s being really honest, he definitely should have kissed Cas years ago. 

It’s weird that they’ve dry humped and not kissed, though. It’s a pretty backwards scenario, but then again, Cas started it when his version of a meet cute was pulling Dean’s traumatized ass out of hell before Dean even knew his name.

So, maybe not so weird after all.

His train of thought is derailed when he hears a faint crackle from his radio. It sounds catastrophically loud in the cave and he goes stiff, expecting another roar from the hidebehind, but it continues to chew on, unperturbed. Dean realizes that it’s chewing so voraciously it probably can’t hear much outside its own snack, so he takes advantage of the opportunity to hiss into the radio, “In a cave—don’t talk.”

The radio hisses quietly, and then has the bad timing to beep loudly to indicate a low battery while the hidebehind is between mouthfuls. It roars, the bones practically vibrating beneath Dean, and he can hear it loping towards him. Dean does the only thing he can think of, and throws the radio towards the sound. It beeps again, and is immediately set upon by the hidebehind, which either swallows it or tears it apart, Dean can’t tell in the dark. He holds his breath, only letting it out once he hears the hidebehind retreat back to its (other) prey.

Dean relaxes only slightly. He’s already been murdered by giant hairy, albeit invisible dogs once in his life. It’s hard to imagine a worse way to go than that, although watching a very visible giant hairy dog eat his intestines out of his stomach isn’t exactly his preferred method of death either.

Semantics, right?

He stares in the direction he’s pretty sure is the ceiling, and wishes he had kissed Cas.

***

The hidebehind has been edging closer to him for the last twenty minutes or so, having flung its pre-midnight snack snack somewhere to Dean’s right. He’s been edging in and out of consciousness, his awareness of the hidebehind’s proximity fluctuating, although he’s fairly certain there’s a strip of flesh from that fresh corpse (what’s left of the loggers, he assumes) currently draped over his exposed ankle where his jeans have ridden up. He definitely thinks that he’s been splashed by at least a couple of its non-sexy bodily fluids as well, but it already smells so bad in this cave he honestly can’t tell for sure.

It would probably be better if he were unconscious for this part, he thinks. The hidebehind is close enough now that he has that telltale prickle on the back of his neck, and he wills his brain to just pack it in and close up shop for the last time.

Unsurprisingly, it refuses. Typical brain, can’t make coherent words when Cas steps out of the bathroom in a low slung towel, and yet imminent death doesn’t even get him a cursory power outage.

He searches for that broken rib from earlier, and wraps his hand around it. It’s not much, but it might buy him a couple seconds at least to stagger to his feet. He’s pretty sure his inner ear is heavily inebriated right now, but if he gets a chance to stand and he leans against the wall, he might end up getting lucky and finding his way out.

He remains still as the hidebehind gets closer, sniffing loudly. The first touch of its matted fur to Dean’s arm has him shuddering involuntarily, and he holds his breath. He wants to wait for the right moment to strike, wants to at least try to go for something vital, an eye, the brain, whatever the giant dog version of a kneecap is.

He’s poised to strike, and then he has to blink because he thinks maybe his brain finally did give up and he’s seeing things. He squints, certain he imagined it, and then—

There it is again. The sweep of a flashlight across the cave wall.

He figures Sam and Cas are probably trying to be stealthy about it to catch the hidebehind by surprise, since the beam is only a quick flash, but he doesn’t really have the luxury of time, here. He sends one more prayer upstairs, this one directed at the patron saint of broken rib bones, shouts, “SAM,” and reaches up and sinks that broken rib bone deep into the hidebehind’s flesh.

Over its yowl of pain, Dean hears both Sam and Cas shout for him, then twin flashlight beams appear on the same wall as before and their footfalls echo loudly in the cave. 

Dean rolls over with a groan, getting stuck by multiple sharp edges of bone as he does so, and attempts to pull himself to his feet. His brain feels like a Christmas present that some six-year old is vigorously shaking as it tries to guess what’s inside, and his balance falters as he stumbles to the side, falling against the cave wall.

A flashlight beam falls on him, and just at the edge of the light he can see the hidebehind lurching from side to side, obviously undecided on if it wants to come after him or the intruders.

“Dean, get down!” Cas shouts, gun out and trained on the creature.

For some reason, Dean does that stupid fucking salute again.

“That I can do,” he says, words a little garbled, and lets his legs give out like they born for it. His landing isn’t particularly graceful, and he bonks his head on what he thinks is a human skull, but his equilibrium is very happy to be back on the ground once again.

A litany of gunshots ring out, the echo bouncing around Dean’s head like a paint shaker on the highest setting, and big purple splotches start forming over his vision. There’s a roar, a dull thump, and then silence.

Flashlight beams dart around, and then land on him. Quick steps, and then there are hands on his face and one on his calf. Dean’s vision is spotty.

“Dean,” Cas is saying urgently, “Dean, can you look at me?”

Dean blinks hard.

“Y’re too far up,” he says.

To Sam, Cas says, desperate, “There’s a lot of blood, Sam. Too much.”

“Cas, relax,” Sam says firmly. “Head wounds bleed a lot. We just have to get him back to the car and then a hospital.”

There’s a deep breath above him, but the hands on his face remain gentle.

“We’ll split his weight between us,” Sam continues. “Got it?”

“Roger that, chief,” Dean says woozily.

Sam pats his leg. “Thanks, Dean.”

Dean is carefully hauled into an upright position, one arm slung over Sam’s shoulders and the other over Cas’.

“Dean, keep talking, please,” Cas says as they make their way out of the cave. Dean trips over something- probably his own feet- and snorts.

“Hi, Cas,” he says. The purple splotches in his vision are playing a really slow game of pong. He probably shouldn’t say that out loud, though. It’ll freak Cas out.

“Hello, Dean.”

“How’dja find me?” he asks. They take a sharp turn, and Dean suddenly realizes why he couldn’t see any natural light in the cave. Not only did the hard corner obscure the majority of the light, but it also clouded over so there’s not even a lot of moonlight available.

“I suppose the one benefit of your head wound bleeding profusely is that it left a trail for us to follow,” Cas says. “You filled in the last blank when you radioed us.”

Dean laughs obnoxiously.

“Used my radio that time, huh? Learned my lesson, buddy, I tell ya.”

“I appreciate it,” Cas says.

“Me too,” Dean says as they exit the cave, “You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I shouldn’t have slept in the bath tub.”

Sam looks at him, obviously confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Cas tells him, then focuses on Dean. “I appreciate that, too.”

Dean nods for a consecutive, contemplative ten seconds. “I was being a weenie.”

Cas almost smiles. “You were.”

“Sorry,” Dean says.

“I’m just glad you’re okay, Dean.”

“Well, I’m actually pretty delusional right now, but I’m like 98.7% sure what I’m saying is true so… take that for what it’s worth. Also, I think I’m about to barf.”

He’s right.

“Y’know, it’s funny,” he continues after he’s wiped his mouth and Cas has patted his back. “You ever think it’s weird how the majority of the cases we work seem to parallel either our various emotional states or the state of our relationship at the time?”

“Uh… no,” Sam says.

“Sammy, just think.  Remember- remember the last time we met the Ghostfacers and they had that stupid fucking drama going on about trusting each other and it was like… it was like _us_. Our exact situation, but somehow stupider. And there was all that heavy handed talk about keeping secrets and it was like some omnipotent God was trying to slam a point down our throats so hard we were supposed to choke on it?”

“So, I’m just trying to think now,” Dean continues, “How do these hidebehinds stack up in the grand scheme of things? What do they symbolize?”

“Dean,” Sam says patiently, “It’s just a hunt. There’s no hidden meaning. We did a job, and now we’re going home.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s that simple. And, no offense, Sam, but I think this one might be a me and Cas parallel, not a me and you parallel. It’s just a matter of figuring it out.”

Sam pats his shoulder. “Whatever keeps you awake and semi-alert, man.”

Dean muses on it for a while. Considers the possibilities, comes up with a thesis.

“Okay,” he announces. “I’ve figured it out. Cas, are you ready to witness the reading comprehension my teachers in school never thought I had?”

“Those teachers obviously didn’t give you the chance you des-”

“Okay here we go. So, it’s a metaphor. Like the bath tub.”

“The bath tub is a metaphor?” Cas asks. “When did that happen?”

“A while ago, don’t worry about it. Anyway, about the hidebehinds. Well, what do they do?”

Cas just looks at him.

“ _Hide_ ,” Dean prompts, raising his brows pointedly. “And what did I do after the- uh-” he glances at Sam, who he did ask not to listen, but still. There are some things he’s still maybe not ready to talk about when in mixed company, and The Thing That Happened In The Gym is one of them. “The thing?” he finishes. “I hid. Like, literally. Behind walls and everything. Even at the time I knew how pathetic it was.”

“So… you’re the hidebehinds in this metaphor?” Cas asks.

“Ye- yeah! Exactly. See, you’re gettin’ it,” he smiles dopily at Cas. “And then like, those dudes who went _missing_? The insomnia. My _missing_ sleep, y’see? Yeah, it’s all starting to come together. So what I did was I stalked me, the bait, through the woods. In this metaphor, I’m us,” he explains hurriedly, the genius spilling out almost too fast for his brain to catch up with his mouth. “So me, The Thing That Happened, is stalking us, as in me and you. Still with me?”

“Definitely,” Cas assures him, like he’s totally not humoring him at all.

“So I’m stalking The Thing That Happened, as in, I’m thinking about it a lot, but I try not to look directly at it. Cause I’m the hidebehind, and hidebehinds hide. Except in my actual case, it was because I was scared and didn’t know how to handle it. So I’m stalking, and I’m hiding, and I’m stalking, and then guess who comes along? Me! I mean, uh, us! Plus Sam.”

“Thanks,” Sam says dryly.

“You’re not supposed to be listening,” Dean says, getting a whiff of dried blood. Jesus, how deep in the woods are they? Dean can’t even remember. “Anyway, me/us goes into the woods and what do we do? We take the fight to The Thing That Happened. But then, see, I get cold feet. The hidebehind takes me and I get all swept up in my own mecha-neurosis again, and that’s the bath tub. Ultimate freak out equals me being carried off by own paranoia and commitment issues and thrown into a completely dark cave that represents how I’d feel if I let said paranoia and commitment issues get in the way of how I feel about you, you see?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “Of course.”

“So it’s like…” Dean snaps his fingers, searching for the name, “Ugh, what’s that thing called… Allegory of the Cave! It’s like that.”

“Sorry, did you just bring _Plato_ into this conversation?” Sam cuts in.  

“Yes, Sam, I did, and even though you’re not supposed to be listening but clearly are, prepare to get your tiny mind blown. So the cave, Cas, that was me before you. The cave in the allegory and the forest, I mean. And the shadow on the wall, that was The Thing That Happened. That was my perception of reality, of us. But then, you showed up. You rescued me from the cave. Showed me the light and stuff- the literal light, man, the first I saw of you in this cave and in hell, was light. Took me outside. Showed me the reality. Killed that paranoia dead. Showed those commitment issues who’s boss. Even if I wanted to go back in the cave now, I couldn’t. I know what’s real. Cas, dude. You showed me the light… shit, do you think that’s where that saying came from? Oh my god. Is this what receiving revelation feels like?”

“I’ll leave that distinction up to you,” Cas says mildly.

Dean takes a deep breath.

“Parallels, man,” he says. “Wow.”

***

Dean wakes up in a hospital bed, and his face feels decidedly less sticky, which he’s grateful for. His back kind of hurts, but that’s pretty par for the course.

He turns his head, and Cas is sitting on a chair by his bed, smiling gently at him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean puts a hand to his head.

“So I got creamed, huh?”

“Only temporarily.”

He looks around. “Where’s Sam?”

“Getting coffee,” Cas says. “We’ve been here a while.”

Dean rubs at his eyes. “Where’s here?”

“Saint Jude’s. We’re still in Minnesota.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Patron Saint of Lost Causes. Well, I was close.”

Cas’ brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Nothing. I was just, uh. Pretty out of it last night, huh?”

“To put it lightly, yes,” Cas says. “I was… worried.”

At that moment, Sam walks back into the room, carrying two Styrofoam cups of coffee. When he sees that Dean’s awake, he smiles.

“Welcome back to the world of the living.” He hands Cas one of the coffees and pats Dean’s foot through the sheets. “Doc said you should be fine, gave you some of the good stuff last night and cleaned you up.” His tone changes, becoming high pitched and throaty, “For the next week or so bed rest, though, hmmmmmm.”

Dean stares.

“I’m sorry, what?” He asks. He looks over at Cas who, inexplicably, is also smiling.

Sam looks at him expectantly. “It’s Yoda, dude.”

Dean feels like he’s missing something.

“Yeah, I know your crappy Yoda impersonation.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise. “Do you… not remember?”

“Remember what?!”

Sam laughs. “Man, last night you were totally delirious, which I guess makes it all the more impressive. But you quoted the entirety of the original _Star Wars_ while we were trying to get you out of the woods and to a hospital. It was actually so good it was pretty spooky. How many times have you seen that movie anyway?”

Dean’s shaking his head slightly, baffled.

“ _Star Wars_ ,” he says flatly. “I quoted the entirety of _Star Wars_.” He looks over at Cas, who shrugs.

“You were really quite entertaining,” he says. “I might have enjoyed it more if half of your face wasn’t covered in blood, but other than that it was very accurate.”

Dean is quiet for a minute, trying to put the pieces together.

“When did I start… doing that?” he asks.

“Right after you vomited,” Sam says. “You just kinda launched into it after that.”

“It was an interesting conversational segue,” Cas adds.

Dean chews on his tongue.

“So nothing about… Plato?” He asks, his voice getting slightly higher on the last word. He looks mostly at Cas for answers.

Sam and Cas exchange looks, both shaking their heads.

“You were pretty out of it, Dean,” Cas says slowly. “It’s possible you remember it differently than how it actually happened.”

“But-” Dean stops himself. He’s messed up history before when completely sober. He should probably just defer to the ones without the concussion on this one. “You know what? Maybe I did quote the entirety of _Star Wars_. That does sound like something I’d do. I’ll take your word for it.”

Cas gives him a bit of a look at that, but obviously decides not to press the issue.

“You’re cleared to leave, by the way,” Cas says. “And by that I mean we should probably get out of here before they realize the insurance we gave them upon your admittance is completely fake. As long as you’re feeling up to it, of course. The nurses at this hospital seem particularly enamoured with Sam, so I’m sure he could buy you some more downtime if you need it.”

Dean laughs, already getting out of bed. “Nothing gets me going more than a little insurance fraud.” He gestures to Cas’… well, everything. Somehow his scruff looks even more prominent under the sodium lights of the hospital. “I’m surprised they aren’t all over you, Mr. Hot Stuff. No offense to the human hidebehind over there.”

“Hey.”

“Well, I think they decided it would probably be best to stay away from the man whose husband was currently sleeping off a fairly serious concussion,” Cas says, looking at a point just over Dean’s shoulder.

Oh.

“Oh,” Dean says.

“They would only let family back to stay with you and-”

“No, that- that makes sense,” Dean manages, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. He clears his throat, reaching for the clean clothes on the nightstand someone had must have brought from his duffel in the Impala. “I’m just gonna… go change.”

He shuts the bathroom door behind him and stares in despair at the buzzing light.

He’s fine. Everything is fine. The silver lining of that near-death experience was to get him to fess up about his feelings for Cas, and he did, and he was ready to say stuff, and now that he has the chance, he should totally say stuff.

He should totally say stuff, and maybe this time try not to confess said stuff in a haze of delirium when in reality he’s showing off the depth of his _Star Wars_ obsession and has a face half covered in dried blood.

He should totally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> normally i wouldn't take such a ridiculous detour in order to make a bad joke abt how much i hate an episode, but i really hate 9.15.


	5. Chapter 5

Hoo boy, so that whole love thing, huh? The last decade Dean wants to revisit for romantic advice is the 90s, but fuck it, what _is_ love?

Oh right, it’s totally that thing he’s in with Cas.

Well, mystery solved. Nothing more to see here, folks.

Literally nothing more to see, since Dean’s staring at the inside of his eyelids right now and pretending that he doesn’t know Cas is sleeping in what looks like an incredibly uncomfortable position on an incredibly uncomfortable chair beside his bed. Dean’s told him more than once to fuck off, but Cas is a stubborn bastard and apparently, “the doctor warned us to keep an eye on you for the first couple days, Dean. Apologies if I don’t want you to die,” which, okay, dramatic. But when Cas asked him what he would do if the situation was reversed, Dean has to admit that shut him up pretty fast. Not that he’s the kind to mother hen or anything.

Dean’s definitely noticed the karmic timing of the situation, thank you very much. Dean’s bed that’s big enough for two and Cas stuck across the room in an uncomfortable position all night? Kind of hard to miss. Granted, for the first couple nights after they got back, he was too out of it to process much, but now that he’s on the mend, that familiar feeling of only kind of unintentional assholery is cropping up again.

For good reason, mind, because Dean knows from experience that chair is less a wingback sat by a roaring fireplace, more whatever the Men of Letters version of an Ikea was back in the 50s.

Dean sighs, cracking one eye open and sneaking a peek at Cas, impressively pretzeled on his perch. He’s been hoisted by his own petard as far as Dean’s concerned. This is what he gets for trying to be a good friend: banished to the desk chair for his troubles.

Basically what’s happening here is that Dean’s hands are tied. Cas is, essentially, giving him no choice. It’s not like Dean’s just going to let Cas _sit there_. That would be absurd.

With that weak and irrelevant disclaimer out of the way, Dean turns onto his side and opens both eyes, staring at Cas.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough after sleeping who knows how many hours. The room is cast in a dim glow from the lamp on the bedside table, and Cas’ chest rises and falls gently. Dean glances at the clock, squinting at the LED numbers: 3:47, he assumes in the morning. Perks of living in an underground bunker is you never know.

“Cas,” Dean tries a little louder. He still doesn’t respond, only sniffing and adjusting the already dangerous angle his neck is crooked at.

Dean rolls his eyes. Even in his sleep, Cas is gonna make him suffer for the cause. Of course. He grabs the tissue box off his nightstand and lobs it at Cas. It lands in his lap and he stirs, his hands automatically reaching for it.

“Dean?” he asks blearily, wincing slightly as he untangles himself. Once he realizes where he is, his eyes snap open and he’s halfway to standing, “Dean, is everything okay?”

Dean shakes his head. “Yes, Jesus. You know if you sat like that much longer you were gonna stick that way?”

Cas sinks back down onto chair. “That’s a ridiculous notion,” he grumbles, though Dean doesn’t miss the way he massages the back of his neck and stretches out his legs with a grimace.

“Look, just-” Dean swallows his own dumb pride and pulls back the covers as invitingly as he can without crossing the line into _there’s-room-for-one-more-bow-chick-a-wow-wow_ territory. “Christ, if only to spare myself the pain of watching you sleep with your head at a 90 degree angle.”

Cas’ gaze flits doubtfully between Dean and the bed.

“You know there aren’t any bath tubs in the bunker,” he says mildly.

Dean licks his lips. Okay, he deserved that one. Doesn’t change the fact that it ruffles his feathers, because apparently Sam was right and he’s actually just a big fat baby.

“One time offer,” he says, clipped, as if they’re still playing the game where Dean pretends this is totally putting him out.

Cas continues staring at him, and for one wild ride of a second Dean convinces himself that he’s actually read this entire situation wrong and Cas is going to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him and their entire relationship is going to implode and then-

Cas slides under the covers next to him, backlit by the light.

Neither of them say anything, and it’s only when Dean has finally processed that he’s somehow found himself in this situation again that he realizes the silence between them could be interpreted as intimate.

So, naturally, he panics and blurts out something stupid.

“What the hell use are you if I died in my sleep here, huh? It would take canon fire to wake you up.”

A smile barely tugs at the corner of Cas’ mouth.

“Your distress is my canon fire,” he says like it ain’t a goddamn thing. “If something had really been wrong, I would have been up immediately.”

Dean gapes at him. Who the fuck just pulls sentiments like that out of their sleeves? Fucking assholes, is who.

Dean turns to his pillow to punch some fluff back into it. “Fuck you,” he mutters peevishly. In his peripheral vision he can see Cas watching him with a quirked brow and small smile, his version of raucous laughter.

It takes him a minute to get over himself, and then he can bring himself to look at Cas again.

“Why didn’t you just climb on board at the beginning of the vigil? Not like we haven’t…” he clears his throat to give himself a second, “Y’know. Shared before.”

Cas eyes him, and judging by his look the answer should probably be obvious, and yet it continues to elude him.

“Dean, you were severely concussed. I felt it would be rude to presume, given the circumstances.”

Right. Of course. It would appear Dean’s finally starting to realize what most people learn by about age three, and that’s that no one can read his mind. If he thinks a thing, say, for example, _Cas is more than welcome to share my bed if he insists on being a stubborn asshole about keeping on an eye on me_ , but doesn’t say the thing out loud, then Cas will never know that sentiment.

See, it’s a weird phenomenon, because Dean understands how this works between him and Sam. He knows, because he thinks about fifty times a day how much he’d like to chop all of Sam’s hair off and shred half of his shirts, but he only voices those thoughts about three times every day, which means Sam responds (or ignores), said comments three times a day. If Dean said something about Sam’s shirts or hair every time he thought it, Sam probably would have moved to New Zealand by now, or really anywhere that requires a transatlantic flight that Dean would most likely be too afraid to step foot on. This is a dynamic he understands, and he’s sure that Sam also holds back when complaining about how fast Dean drives or how Dean talks with his mouth full.  

The thing with Cas, though, is that Dean _also_ has certain (very different, mind) thoughts about Cas many times per day, but they never get voiced. Ever. Whether it’s the bottlenecking bullshit or just pure cowardice, Dean is very not good at saying things to Cas, and wouldn’t you know it, communication tends to be kind of important in matters like these.

Which is probably why Dean ended up sleeping in a bath tub.

Except now, he’s flipping the script. He’s inviting Cas into the bath tub with him. Or he never got into the bath tub in the first place, whatever. The point of the metaphor is that he’s not running away this time, he’s actively offering Cas a spot beside him with no contingency plan.

“Cas,” he says bracingly, “You don’t have to sleep in that shitty chair. You can bunk with me.”

There’s a brief silence, and then, “Uh… Thank you? Though you already invited me. I’m already in the bed.”

Dean flaps his hand uselessly at Cas. “Yeah, I know, thanks. It’s symbolic or some shit, okay? Just go with it.”

Cas takes a breath, doing an admirable good job at hiding his confusion but less than admirable acting job.

“Yes, Dean, of course,” he plays along. “That’s very kind of you to offer. Thank you.”

Dean widens his eyes briefly. “Oi vey. Well, there’s still the G in EGOT, right?”

“Dean, are you sure you’re-”

“It’s almost 4 in the morning and I’m coming off a concussion and I just asked you to sleep with me, I’m sure I’m fine.”

Cas looks like he wants to say more, but seems to decide against it as he reaches over to turn the bedside lamp off.

“Let me know if you need anything,” is all he says. Probably too busy wondering how he got stuck sharing a bed with Dean’s neurotic ass once again.

 _To kiss you_ , would be a weird way to answer that, right? Right.

“Roger that,” Dean says. “Night, Cas. Or, uh morning. Whatever.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

***

Every single time Dean and Cas have shared a bed, Dean’s been the first one awake. He’s not proud to admit it, but he’s literally dragged Cas out of bed at least once or twice when he was especially taken with his mattress and they had places to be. To put it lightly, Cas is really good at sleeping.

Dean definitely doesn’t find this endearing in any way, shape, or form. He also definitely doesn’t spend a couple minutes whenever he wakes up before Cas simply watching him sleep, because that would be weird and intimate, and if anyone has taken anything away from this entire ordeal, it’s that Dean has absolutely zero interest in experiencing any kind of intimacy with Cas.

All of this is why Dean finds it very strange to wake up alone in a bed he fell asleep sharing with Cas. For all he knows, last night could have been a dream, although to be fair, he’s usually smoother in his dreams. 

Cas’ side of the bed is cold, and Dean finds that fact more disquieting than he expects. If he really bothered to examine that feeling further, he’d probably uncover a healthy dollop of disappointment that he didn’t have the pleasure of waking up next to Cas this morning.

Trying to shake that thought like stray water in the ear, he sits up and is pleased to find that his brain seems to have finally reattached itself to his skull. He was tired of feeling like a brain floating in a vat in some mad science lab. He stands on one foot and alternates putting his left and right index finger on the tip of his nose, and only loses his balance once or twice, though that has nothing to do with his concussion and everything to do with a lifetime spent throwing his weight in directions it was never meant to be thrown (no one should bust down that many doors or jump through that many windows in their life).

He gets an accidental whiff of himself and makes a face. Obviously staying bedridden for more than a day at a time doesn’t do much for the old sweat glands. He grabs a towel and heads for the shower room, happy to wash off any sleep gunk that’s accumulated since the hospital.

There’s nothing better than being reminded how good the water pressure down here is, and Dean spends the first couple minutes of his shower simply standing under the spray, letting it massage various muscles in his back. He breathes out heavily, rubbing the back of his neck where it’s gone stiff from lying on a pillow for the past couple days. 

The shower wakes him up in more ways than one, and he glares south.

“You again,” he accuses.

He really does like his dick, but man, it’s caused him a lot of grief these past few weeks.

Of course, it’s super easy to blame the appendage instead of the brain, as if Dean’s dick is the one forcing him to jump through ridiculous hoop after ridiculous hoop. Like, it’s not something Dean plans on advertising, but he already had the whole “oh shit I’m in love with Cas” revelation when he was stuck in the hidebehind’s cave, and also beforehand when he accidentally blurted it out loud in front Sam and Cas, because bottlenecking is apparently a finicky phenomenon. He’s not sure where the jury currently stands on that verdict, and he’s not exactly thrilled to find out.

However, his most immediate problem is his dick, and that he can probably sort out with a minimum amount of carnage. And, y’know, he’s in love with Cas, so that gives him like jerk off rights or something right? Like copyright but for masturbation? Masturbation™ (Castiel).

The paperwork hasn’t gone through yet, but he’s not too worried about that, and neither is his dick, which seems just as happy to focus on the Cas part of that sentiment. Cas, who, only a few days ago wore a tight fit leather jacket and was rocking some serious lumberjack scruff with absolutely no regard whatsoever for Dean’s wellbeing. Dean imagines what it would feel like to drag his lips across Cas’ jaw, or feel the scratch of Cas’ beard on the inside of his thigh. He’s never had beard burn from another person before, but now that the thought’s in his head, he thinks he’s going to have to add it to the bucket list. 

He’s got one hand flat on his stomach and the other stroking himself, leaning against the tiled wall with his head thrown back, as if to say, _look at all this neck no one’s currently attending to_. He tries to imagine what it would feel like, Cas with one hand on his neck and one firmly gripping his hip, his leg hooked neatly around Cas’ upper thigh as Cas breathlessly fucks into him beneath the almost scalding stream of water. He imagines Cas’ broad back beneath his hands, him barely able to hold on as Cas’ mouth burns hotter than the water, leaving Dean gasping for air but desperate for Cas.

A guttural groan is working its way out of him, and it’s an echo-y bathroom so Dean does his best to bite it back, firmly tucking his bottom lip beneath his teeth, but the image of Cas is so clear, so visceral in the steam and the spray that that he feels his chest cave with the effort. God, he wants Cas so bad, it’s ridiculous to pretend otherwise, ridiculous to even pretend to pretend. He aches for Cas, craves Cas’ skin under his fingertips and mouth like it’s a drug, a tactile addiction. He keeps stroking himself and he wonders what Cas’ mouth tastes like, what it would feel like to have Cas on his tongue, warm and full inside him.   

He sighs out Cas’ name as he comes, completely forgetting he’s not supposed to. The fact that his heart flutters uselessly in time with his orgasm definitely hammers home what he already knew, but it doesn’t make him any less embarrassed that he seems just as equally gone on Cas’ stupid everything else as he is his hot dumb ass.

It was inevitable, probably, Dean tries to console himself as he rinses off. Guy saves you from hell, hard to top that, right? Then again, if Dean had known in hell that one day he would be this completely bonkers over someone, he would have clawed his way out of there himself since he’s kind of a fucking sloppy mess for love and affection. Go figure.

He’s in the middle of shampooing his hair when he hears the bathroom door open and shut. Despite the fact that the untoward part of his shower is already over, he finds himself freezing, soap subs lazily dripping towards his eye.

“Dean?” Cas asks.

Dean takes a second to be grateful this isn’t a communal shower before answering.

“Morning,” he says over the sound of the water. Shampoo stings his eye and prompts him back into movement as he attempts to rinse it out.

“There’s breakfast,” Cas says. “When you’re done.”

“Sam cooked?” Dean is surprised. Not that Sam can’t cook, but it’s been generally agreed upon that Dean is the better of the two, and actively enjoys doing it whereas Sam could take it or leave it, meaning he usually leaves it for Dean (so long as he takes the majority of dish duty).

“Uh… No,” Cas says. “I did.”

Dean methodically rinses his hair for a couple seconds.

“Oh.” He’s still surprised.  Of the three of them, Cas definitely has the least patience for cooking, and avoids it whenever possible. For a guy who used to be immortal, he’s sure awful at spending any amount of time waiting: for the oven to heat up, for toast to pop, for a casserole to bake. Cas is much better at waiting for his plants in the garden to grow. His job is usually to bring the base components of a recipe to Dean. Sometimes he peels potatoes if he’s feeling especially adventurous.

“It’s...edible,” Cas supplies. “Not near as good as yours, but I figured you’d be hungry after nothing but crackers and toast for the past few days.”

Dean swallows, and yep, that’s a feeling in his throat. Unfortunate.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says, when what he really means is, _I’ve never loved anyone more in my entire life than I do right now at this very moment._

“It’s the least I could do,” Cas assures him.

Dean doesn’t say anything else, but he finishes up quickly and wraps his towel tightly around his waist before stepping out. Cas is at the sink, brushing his teeth and wearing some ratty ass plaid pajama bottoms that hang way too low on his waist. Dean can feel his almost-late-30s motor struggling to rev again, and he begs it to stall, just until he can get out of here at least. The muscles in Cas’ back ripple slightly with his movement, and Dean tries to avert his eyes without making it obvious he’s averting his eyes.

Cas spits one last time and drinks some water out of his cupped hands before turning to meet Dean.  His eyes briefly flick down and then back up.

“You smell better,” he says, leaning back against the sink, hands lightly gripping the lip. He’s smiling, just slightly. Teasing.

“Uh, thanks,” Dean says. “Perks of a concussion, I guess. Sorry if I, uh… chased you out of bed this morning with the natural juices.” Gross.

Cas’ eyebrows raise slightly, the smile still there. “No,” he says, “Actually, it was your growling stomach. Hence the mediocre eggs getting cold out in the kitchen.” He puts a finger to his chin contemplatively. “‘Natural juices’, though, I’ll have to remember that one.”

Dean makes a face. “Please don’t.”

“When I fell, and even before I fell, you were my guide to humanity, Dean. It’s very important that I heed your words of wisdom.”

Dean snorts, rolling his eyes. “You know that shtick grew old months ago, you asshole. Find a new bit.”

Cas pushes himself off the sink, moving closer to Dean. Suddenly, the leftover steam from the shower seems thick enough to choke on. He stops a few feet away from Dean, eyes dark and considering.

“Any suggestions?”

Dean has no idea if Cas is looking for a specific answer, but he damn well knows if there is one, he wants to give it.

“You know,” Cas says suggestively, moving closer, “There is one thing you didn’t teach me…” He takes one more step, and he’s close enough to Dean to reach out, fingertip tracing the line of the towel at Dean’s waist. The touch comes like static shock to Dean, and he holds his breath as his heart practically leaps up his throat.

“What’s that?” he manages to rasp out.

Cas looks up at him from under his lashes, a trick Dean’s actually pretty sure Cas picked up from watching him flirt his way through the bars of the Midwest whenever he’s in the mood for free drinks. Cas’ smile widens, into something that has Dean’s stomach somersaulting and heat skittering up and down his spine. Cas leans close, close enough Dean can smell the mint toothpaste on his breath, close enough it would take almost no effort at all to close the distance between them, a shuffle forward at most.

They hang there like that for a moment extended, Cas’ eyes locked on him.

He leans forward, less than inch. Dean feels his tongue involuntarily dart out to wet his lips, and Cas’ quick gaze follows the movement precisely, and then tracks back up. Dean feels like he’s balancing on a knifepoint, wondering if Cas can see how madly his pulse is racing away beneath the thin skin of his throat.

Cas moves forward, just a _little_ bit more.

“How do you get your eggs so fluffy?” he asks.

Somewhere out in the universe, a record scratches. Dean blinks. He feels like a very full balloon that someone poked with a needle, and a constant but microscopic stream of air is escaping him with a high pitched whine.

“My eggs?” he repeats hoarsely.

Cas nods earnestly, and Dean feels like he’s staring into the abyss. “I’m not sure what you add to them or how you flick your wrist or stir them, but mine just never come out quite as delicate as yours.”

Dean’s eyes are wide enough they may as well be those quarter slots in the candy dispensers at the mall, and he can see it in Cas’ face now, the _gotcha sucker!_ The _thanks for the blueballs, jackass!_ The _beat you at your own cold footed game, numbnuts!_

Dean’s shaking his head now, unsure whether he’s about to burst out in hysterical laughter or just genuine hysterics.

“You asshole,” he recycles his very clever insult from earlier. “Oh, you little fucker.”

Mirth dances behind Cas’ eyes as he flattens the rest of his expression.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says innocently. “It was a genuine question.”

Dean leans his head back against the shower stall, smiling ruefully.

“I’m actually kind of disappointed you didn’t drag a bath tub in here, but okay, point taken.”

Cas puts a warm palm to Dean’s waist. “You really should go get something to eat,” he says, gently shooing Dean in the direction of the door.

Dean goes, still shaking his head in disbelief. 

“You fucking dick,” he says, when what he really means is, _well played, you fucking dick_.

He’s about to head out to finally change into some real clothes and yes, get something to eat, when Cas calls out to him.

“Dean.”

Dean pauses in the doorway, turning around.

“We should spar today,” Cas says casually, like the idea only just occurred to him. “See how you’re feeling, if you’re back to 100%.” He shrugs. “We kind of left things unfinished last time, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” Dean hears himself say faintly from somewhere way outside of himself. “Uh, yeah. Definitely. Um.” He takes a step through the door. “I’m gonna. Go- eggs, now.”

He makes it about three steps down the hall before something comes over him and he turns back, facing into the bathroom once more.

“Cas,” he says.

Cas, who’s now flossing, looks at him.

“You, uh- you pull the cooked edges into the center of the pan,” he says. He’s still kind of floating outside himself. “You keep doing that until the uncooked egg stops flooding the space left behind.” He realizes he probably hasn’t been clear. “For the. Uh. For fluffy scrambled eggs. It’s how I do it anyway.” 

Cas slowly drops his hands, the floss stuck between two of his bottom teeth.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says, and this time there’s no joke to be found. He genuinely means it.

Dean smiles briefly.

“Just, y’know,” he clears his throat. “Since you asked and all.” He inclines his head back towards the kitchen. “So, again. I’m just gonna… go.” For some reason he does that fucking embarrassing salute again before leaving, and immediately beelines for his room, which he then stands in the middle of for a full minute, trying to piece together what exactly just transpired between him and Cas.

A frankly embarrassing showing is what, but that doesn’t stop Dean grinning from ear to ear as he covers his face with his hand and tries to figure out how to process the absurd buoyancy that’s rising in him like a kite taking flight.

He’s getting a dick in his ass today.

***

Dean paces in his room, five pairs of identical sweatpants laid out on his bed. It probably says something about him as a person that he’s been debating for the past half hour on which pair will serve him best to get fucked in.

He stops, running a hand down his face.

“Walmart brand,” he repeats to himself. “Not going to prom, buddy.”

He stares at the pants. He starts pacing again.

It might be a little presumptuous to go into this assuming he’s gonna need to be wearing fuck-me-pants, but he thinks Cas has been pretty transparent about the whole thing, and Dean himself has certainly been a neurotic mess through this whole thing, so his current situation should be wholly unsurprising.

It’s not that he’s scared, or unwilling. No, he’s definitely the complete opposite of that. In fact, he’s so far at the other end of the spectrum that he can’t even fathom the possibility of not being willing right now. The clamminess of his palms and the ferocity of his swallowing is jelly-knee inducing anticipation, years upon years of tension that are apparently about to be snipped open like they’re the main event at a ribbon cutting ceremony, and that fucking gym is the giant novelty pair of scissors.

Cas’ overcooked eggs sit heavy in his stomach as he goes down the line of sweat pants once again, rubbing the fabric between his fingers and trying to deduce which pair is the thinnest. The futility of it all is maddening, since the pair of pants he wears has about as much to do with him getting fucked as does the direction the wind is blowing today, but somehow this has become _important_. Because if Dean focuses on this, he doesn’t have to focus on how his life is inevitably going to change trajectories after today.

Not even that that’s a bad thing, considering his life has always been on a fairly shitty trajectory, and finally sealing the deal with Cas can only make things better.

However, there is still the slight problem that Dean seems to be attempting to carry the entire potential future weight of their relationship on his shoulders before they’ve even talked about it, and somehow that’s manifested in him picking out the exact right pair of sweat pants or else it’s all going to come crumbling down, as most schemes do when faced with ill-chosen loungewear.

“Walmart,” he points to the first pair of pants. “Walmart.” He points to the second. “Walmart, it’s all Walmart, Jesus Christ.”

Dean wishes this had been a spontaneous dam breakage instead of a penciled in one. No time for second guessing when you’ve got fingers in your mouth and a gym mat at your back.

He stares at the ceiling and takes a deep, steadying breath.

It’s just Cas.

Cas, his best friend. Cas, the unrelenting asshole. Cas, the irritable curmudgeon. The nerd. The doof. Scary ass mofo. Biggest pain in the ass (and heart) Dean’s ever dealt with. Rewriter of history. Voracious consumer of Netflix. Not a morning person. And, newly acknowledged guy Dean plans on spending the rest of his life with, here’s fucking hoping in a romantic way.

He tries a different tactic, asks himself how he’d feel if this whole thing got called off for whatever reason.

Pretty shitty, is the answer. Kind of like how he’s felt every time in the past couple of weeks when he’s looked at Cas but not been really able to _look_ at Cas, for fear of his face flaming off. How it all seems to boil down to him wanting Cas with him but not really being able to take that last step and actually force the words past his lips.

And why? Well, as much as it pains him to say this, Sam was right. He’s just a big fat baby.

Emotions themselves come (way too, sometimes) easily to Dean, but his ability to vocalize them does not. It’s like when he went on that run with Sam the other day. He just can’t keep up.

Rumor has it, however, that running is an activity that you can get better at with practice. That if you’re a bad runner but then take time to cultivate the skill, you can become a good runner. It’s logic on par with putting a round peg in a round hole. He’s not lighting any philosopher’s worlds on fire here.

But it feels important that he remind himself of that. That yes, he has lots and lots and lots of practice with Cas, but nots and nots and nots of practice with functioning, healthy relationships, or a functioning, healthy brain. Attempting to get all of those variables in line isn’t going to be a walk in the park. In fact, it’s not going to be a walk at all, more like pushing a very heavy boulder up a very steep hill.

On the other hand, Dean and Cas seem to have made a habit out of beating the odds, time and time again. Whether or not someone’s been tipping a cosmic hat brim in their favor, Dean can’t say. What he can say is that most people don’t even get a second chance, let alone a fourth, fifth, sixth. And yet here they are, somehow, inexplicably both alive and on the other side of some serious shit and some serious fans. Together.

If Dean hadn’t lived every gory minute of it himself, he would’ve said it was too easy. That no way is it possible after everything they’ve been through that they can find themselves here. That no way the tumultuous nature of his relationship with Cas has been anything but two people who desperately want to be together, trying to make it work in whatever capacity makes itself available to them at the time. 

They’ve fought for this-for each other- for years. Which, on reflection, is kind of hilarious to think about in their current context, as Dean’s spent weeks clinging to that last facsimile of their “buddy-buddy” dynamic, if only because the inevitably of this, of them, finally slotted into a place for him where he actually had to acknowledge it.

Like. C’mon. They’ve fought vampires and wendigos and werewolves and ghosts and angels and demons and held off the goddamn apocalypse (that they also started). His skills include: charming his way into people’s wallets and beds, impersonating an agent from various federal and state departments and other professionals, driving getaway, hand to hand combat skills, proficiency with firearms, hacking, cooking a mean burger, having a vast array of pop culture references to draw on should the situation call (or not) for it, shooting a perfect game of darts, and creative problem solving (yes, dental floss can be used to stitch up a wound, and loose nails in the floorboards are more effective than a set of Ginsu knives).

Basically, Dean has a pretty impressive resume, and what skills he doesn’t possess, he can fake. He’s like the multiuse tool of people.

That’s certainly not to say there aren’t things he can’t do, but it also goes a long way in at least attempting to put this thing with Cas in perspective. No, driving a getaway car may not be as personal as confessing your love to your best friend, but at least if it goes south, the ensuing crash is only going to be metaphorical.

He takes a deep breath.

“Walmart,” he reminds himself. “Not prom.”

There are pros and cons to opening this can of worms, as with any can of worms. Of course there are. There always will be. Worms may not be the most fun creatures in the world, but then again who wants to keep an unopened can of worms in their pantry. Some poor, unsuspecting house guest might show up one day and accidentally bake them into a pie.

The thing is, Dean has a tiny tendency to overthink things. Not usually in any meaningful way, mind. He just thinks, a lot. Like, jet engine on the back of a skateboard a lot. Second guessing that turns into third guessing that turns into sixty-eighth guessing. Sometimes for the sake of the job he has to turn it off and try to just _do_ , but when it comes to the more personal matters, he can easily spiral for days at a time, circling the never ending drain.

But this thing with Cas, it’s been years, and contrary to popular belief, he’s not an idiot. 

So he does what he should have done a long time ago, and he cuts through the bullshit. Gets right down to brass tacks. Asks himself what he wants (no, he’s not good at wanting things, but for once he tells himself to shut the fuck up and just allow himself the luxury of at least acknowledging that there are things he wants, and that at least some of those things are within his reach).

The most immediate answer to that question, of course, is Cas. He wants Cas very much. He loves Cas very much. It’s not a hard conclusion to draw.

Dean puts on a pair of goddamn sweat pants.

***

It feels weirdly formal to walk down the hall towards the gym again. Dean toys with the small bottle of lube he has in his pocket, like it’s a super normal thing to bring to a workout.

Wouldn’t that be embarrassing if after all this, all Cas wanted to do was to spar.

Dean almost considers knocking on the gym door, and then he realizes how fucking stupid that would be, so he walks right in and immediately regrets it. Cas meets his eye mid-pull up.

“Hello, Dean,” he says. He’s shirtless and his ankles are crossed as he holds himself above the bar, watching. His muscles are taut as he holds himself up, and Dean’s mind wipes itself like a hard drive that just had a magnet dropped on it.

 “Hi,” Dean says blankly. He’s definitely staring, but he thinks that’s the whole point. Cas always was good at dramatic entrances.

Cas slowly lowers himself, then drops off the bar.

Dean inclines his head back towards it.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, throat dry.

“I was done,” Cas says, and Dean almost snorts. Naturally.

“Caught you at a good time then, huh?”

A devilish grin flits fast across Cas’ face.

“Convenient, isn’t it.”

“I’ll say.”

Dean takes a couple steps towards where Cas waits for him on the mats.

“You ready to go?” Dean asks, and he feels his stomach flutter.

Cas regards him in silence for a couple seconds.

“Yes.” And it’s said with such surety, in the tone Cas would have used once upon an apocalypse to talk about his mission from God. “Are you?”

Dean swallows and nods.

“Yeah,” he says, and despite the deep fryer his brain currently feels dunked in, he means it, and he makes sure he sounds like he does.

Cas’ gaze grows anticipatory at that, his chin ticking up minutely. He’s not as stubbly as he was the other night, but he’s not completely clean shaven, either.

Dean steps closer, hands curled into loose fists at his sides as he rubs his fingers over his palms. He comes to a stop just a couple inches from Cas, and for a moment, they just look at each other. Sizing each other up in more than just the physical sense.

Anticipation prickles up and down Dean’s skin like he’s just stepped outside into a blanket of early morning mist, heat already simmering in his gut as he takes in the solidity of Cas in front of him. They’re close enough in height that they’re almost eye to eye, and Cas’ gaze holds steady on Dean. He reaches out, catching the hem of Dean’s shirt between his fingers.

“This might get in the way,” Cas suggests wryly.

Dean ducks his head, smiling, playing along. “You think?”

“Of the sparring,” Cas clarifies as his second hand joins his first. His fingers are brushing against Dean’s stomach where they’re holding his shirt, just light enough that it almost tickles. Dean knows his eyes drop more than once to Cas’ mouth, knows that Cas knows. His own lips tingle.

“Of the sparring,” Dean repeats. He raises his arms at Cas’ look, and Cas slowly starts bringing the shirt over Dean’s head. The brush of fabric feathers over his already sensitive skin, and he swallows. His “of course,” comes out raspier than expected.

Once Cas gets Dean’s shirt off, he lets it hang from his hand as he appraises Dean, gaze roaming. Ridiculously, it makes Dean squirm a little. Cas obviously picks up on it, his brows drawing together.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, dropping the act.

Dean blinks. “What?”

Cas cups Dean’s elbow, drawing him closer.

“Tell me the truth, Dean.”

Dean looks at the spot where Cas is holding him, clearing his throat.

“No, yeah, I’m- Cas, I’m good,” he assures him. “Better than good.”

Cas’ grip tightens slightly, protectively, before he draws his hand back. His serious expression is replaced with that coiled smirk again, raising his hands in a fighting stance.

“Well in that case, shall we begin?” He asks, taking a small step backwards.

Dean takes a step to his left, and Cas takes a step to his right.

“So we’re really doing this?” Dean asks.

Cas raises his brows. “Sparring? Yes, I thought that was the plan.” His gaze very obviously drops to Dean’s mouth, and rolls lazily back up to meet his eyes. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?” He takes a step, and Dean mirrors him.

Dean’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. Cas paces slowly in front of him, and Dean matches him step for step. He carefully watches the rise and fall of Cas’ chest, and breathes in time with him. His fingers twitch minutely where they’re balled into loose fists, aching to reach out and touch.

“That was… the plan,” Dean says.

Cas’ hair is a goddamn mess today, looking like a bird nested in it sometime between their morning meeting in the bathroom and now. Dean swears his stubble has grown darker in the meantime as well, or maybe it’s just the lighting in here. He wants to know what it feels like.

“If you need to stop for any reason, if your head starts to hurt-” At Dean’s scoff, Cas fixes him with a pissy look, “I’m serious, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it Safety Stan,” Dean says. He can feel the adrenaline starting to flow, pushing the words out of him, “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

“Oh,” Cas considers him, tilting his head. It’s an innocent enough gesture, but something sparks in his eyes. “So this isn’t your first time, then.”

“I-” Dean cuts himself off, biting his tongue as heat rises in his cheeks. “I’ll give you that one,” he acquiesces, and rushes Cas.

Cas is ready for him, as he neatly dodges Dean’s attack. Dean rights himself quickly, getting his arm down just in time to stop Cas from jabbing him in the side. They both hop-step backwards, watching each other warily. Somewhere, a notch just got kicked up.

See, this kind of stuff, Dean can do. He knows how to fight, and he knows how to taunt. Most of this shit he learned in real life or death situations, so doing it as a play run is almost easy, if his opponent wasn’t over 6ft of what could only be described as a recipient of the genetic lottery. Cas is tanner than Dean, which is unsurprising given he spends a great deal of time in any season that’s not winter out in the garden. The rest of his time outside is spent with that local gang of neighborhood cats that Dean always throws dirty looks at because they make him sneeze. Only for Cas would he start carrying Claritin on him at all times, just in case he needs a hand with feeding the mangy beasts.

“Feeling okay?” Cas double checks.

Dean rolls his eyes, and mid-roll he gets a pulled punch to the stomach, a surprised _whoosh_ of air leaving him. Cas is staring at him innocently.

“You dick,” he says. “That’s the literal definition of a sucker punch right there.”

“You were feeling okay enough to roll your eyes at me. Beside, are you saying if I was fighting an opponent in hand-to-hand combat, you’d want me to _not_ take advantage of an opportunity like that?” Cas currently looks very much like he wants to take advantage, and Dean swallows.

“Yes,” he says, rougher than he intends. Then, “No, you’re right.”

Cas steps forward so quickly he disappears and reappears between blinks, a large hand pressed flat to Dean’s stomach.

“Show me,” he murmurs.

Dean drags in a shuddering breath. “Show you what?”

“Where to punch,” Cas says. “Maximum efficiency.”

His palm is warm and huge on Dean’s stomach, and with a hesitant hand, he puts two fingertips on the back of Cas’ wrist.

“Dude,” he says shakily into the minimal air between them. “You know exactly w-”

Cas silences him with a pointed look.

“Show me,” he repeats, more insistently.

Dean taps on Cas’ wrist once, then steels himself and splays his fingers across the backs of Cas’. He gently slides Cas’ hand to his side, just above his waist. Cas’ fingers press there, just barely. Regardless, Dean knows there will be brief white marks left behind and a thrill runs through him at the thought.

“Kidneys,” he instructs hoarsely. “Both sides.”

Cas bends down to get a closer look, his breath ghosting over Dean’s waist. Dean tries not to whine.

“Got it,” he says, straightening back up. His fingers are still intertwined with Dean’s.

Dean slides their hands back to his front, then to his right side, just over the widest part of his ribcage.

“Liver,” he says. “One side.”

Cas’ fingertips find the ridges in Dean’s ribs and gently massage them. It tickles a bit, and Dean squeezes Cas’ hand a little tighter.

“One side,” Cas repeats.

“Uh huh,” Dean confirms dumbly, then shakes his head. “Then… Uh. The face, obviously.”

They stand there for a moment, saying nothing. Cas’ hand is still pressed to his side, and Dean’s doing everything within his power to keep his breathing even.  Cas is watching him with dark and mirth-filled eyes, obviously enjoying this.

“Show me?” he repeats, and it’s quiet, but the deep timbre of Cas’ voice sends want rushing through him in a wave, and Dean reflexively tightens his grip again.

He slowly drags Cas’ hand up his torso, and when Cas’ thumb catches against his nipple on the way up, Dean can’t help the very obvious sound that escapes him. Cas, who was watching their hands, looks up whip-quick, and is definitely suppressing a smile.

“That seems like a fairly sensitive spot,” he observes mildly, “Should I consider that a potential area of attack when in a fight?”

“Fuck you,” Dean says, which is a mistake because now they can both hear his voice trembling slightly. He’s also betrayed by his now peaked nipple, stirred by Cas’ touch.

When Dean doesn’t move their intertwined hands any further, Cas runs his thumb across that same spot once more, and Dean lets his head fall forward as he lets out a breathy moan.

“Cas,” he warns, heart fluttering in his chest. He’s starting to sweat, his palms damp and the rest of him running hot and cold at seemingly random intervals. Sheer, unbridled _want_ churns through him, filling him up and spilling out of him.

Cas doesn’t respond directly to him, but this time he’s the one moving their hands, up until his thumb lines up with the center of Dean’s throat.

“Throat,” he recites, “But only for serious injury.” His touch is completely non-threatening, but Dean swallows nonetheless and can feel Cas’ thumb press to his Adam’s Apple. His fingertips on the side of Dean’s neck are feather light, just brushing his jaw and earlobe. He briefly scratches his nails through the section of Dean’s hair he can reach, and raises their hands once more.

“Jaw,” he continues, fitting his palm just so. He brushes his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone and Dean’s convinced he leaves a trail of embers, his breath hitching.

Dean’s fully hard now, and he would probably be ashamed by that fact if he hadn’t been hazily and guiltily dreaming about this moment since before the apocalypse.

Keeping that in mind as he carefully disentangles his hand from Cas’ to drop a palm to Cas’ waist, he tries to drum up the challenge in his eyes, despite knowing the best he can muster up is a slightly wilder mad glint. He searches Cas’ face, and Cas definitely hides it better than his sloppy ass ever will, but he can see the tension simmering there as well, behind the coolly cultivated mask Cas is so good at putting on.

Cas’ other hand snakes around Dean’s waist and rests on his lower back, fingers splayed, his ring finger and pinky just barely dipping beneath the waistband of Dean’s sweats.

“So I guess we’re dropping the pretense, huh?” Dean barely manages to squeeze out, his breath all caught up in his chest.

“There was a pretense?” Cas asks, and kisses him.

For one hot second, Dean wonders if this is what a rocket feels like at the end of the countdown, all those weeks and months and years of preparation gone into those final seconds before that one incendiary liftoff.

And then he realizes it doesn’t matter, because he’s not going anywhere. Cas has him on lockdown, pulling Dean flush to him and sliding his hand back into Dean’s hair. Dean feels like he can barely keep up, knows what he’s tasting is something he should have been having for a long time now, trying to pour years of want into one, increasingly desperate kiss.

“God,” Cas grits out, nipping at his bottom lip, his hand dropping again to rest, hot and possessive, on the back of Dean’s neck, “These past few weeks especially… Dean, you don’t even know.” He drags his mouth along Dean’s jaw, moving down to bury his face in Dean’s throat and press his lips insistently to the sensitive skin there. He nudges at the bottom of Dean’s jaw, and Dean bares his neck, lifting his eyes to the ceiling as he holds onto Cas for dear life.

“Trust me,” he manages, “Dude, I get it.”

Cas walks him backwards until Dean bumps against the wall, and Dean bends his head, raises a hand to press to Cas’ cheek to draw him in for another kiss. Cas acquiesces, slotting his mouth against Dean’s again. Cas kisses like a speeding train, one track and unrelenting—not precise, exactly, but so goddamn focused on the task at hand that Dean’s pretty sure he forgets to breathe, and has to break it off momentarily if only so they can both suck in some oxygen.

“I don’t mean to sound impatient,” Cas says, which is a total lie and they both know it, “But you really did take your time.”

He can feel Cas’ erection through his sweatpants brushing against his own, and shamelessly grinds against it, Cas hissing through his teeth at the contact. He kisses Cas again, but pulls back almost immediately.

“Yeah that was…” Well, he doesn’t know what it was, exactly, and trying to explain it to Cas right this second will definitely take way longer than he cares to spare right now, “My bad.”

Cas pushes a thigh in between his legs, and Dean takes full advantage of it, clenching onto Cas’ thick bicep as he straddles it and starts to grind down on it. Cas moves his hand further down in Dean’s sweats, grabbing a handful of Dean’s ass and Dean gasps, leaning his forehead against Cas’ naked shoulder.

“Yeah,” he repeats, breathless, “Yeah, that was _really_ my bad.”

He scrabbles for the hand Cas has pressed to the back of his neck, pulling it in front of him so he can hold Cas’ hand to his lips, pressing sloppy, eager kisses to his fingers. Taking the hint, Cas slots his index finger into Dean’s mouth, and Dean groans, pleased, as he runs his tongue up the length of it.

Cas’ gaze is hooded but calculating, carefully taking in the scene in front of him.   

“You like that,” he murmurs, now brushing his thumb across Dean’s top lip.

Dean feels his cheeks heat at the observation, but it’s not like Cas is wrong. He nods, greedy for Cas, eager to invite him in.

He pulls off, kisses Cas again.

“Any part of you,” Dean gasps against Cas’ lips, “All of you.”

He’s fumbling for the lube in his pocket when Cas’ wandering hand brushes tantalizingly close to his hole, and Dean muffles his curse into Cas’ neck. He can feel Cas smiling into his hair.

“Okay,” he breathes, positive he’s blushing in more than one place, “So you get the picture.”

“I have the picture, Dean,” Cas assures him.

“So should we-” He’s about to ask if they should go back to his room, and then he’s hit anew with the visual of Cas doing pullups, of how Cas is pressing him into the wall right now, a solid line of heat against him, and abandons his thought mid-sentence. He’s not waiting till they get back to his room. Hell, he’s not sure he can make it to third base at the rate they’re going. “Nope,” he says, shoving the lube at Cas. “Here is good. Here is fine.”

“Excellent,” Cas says, and hikes Dean’s leg up and around his waist. Dean doesn’t realize what he’s doing until the pad of Cas’ thumb presses against his entrance, and he sees stars.

“F-f-fuck, _Cas_ ,” he gasps, scrambling to find something to hold onto. He lands with one hand looped under Cas’ arm, clutching Cas’ shoulder, and the other in a fist against Cas’ back, where he can feel every movement’s reverberation in the muscles against his clenched fist. Cas doesn’t enter him yet, but he’s massaging the skin there, effectively enough that Dean can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “Please, Cas,” he whines, the desperation painfully obvious in his voice. This is no dirty gas station bathroom. This is no rinky dink motel shared with his brother. It sure as shit ain’t his own hand. Dean’s honest to god going to have Cas’ dick inside him soon, and he’s over the fucking moon.

“Floor,” Dean grits out, “Mats- Cas-”

Cas obviously gets the message. They don’t break apart as they walk back towards them, Cas the one stuck going backwards this time. It’s like sparring, this dance across the mats, but Dean’s pretty sure that particular training exercise became moot the moment it evolved into this.

Cas sinks to the floor, and Dean follows, knees bracketing Cas’ waist. He’s thick enough that Dean can actually feel a muscle protesting in his groin at the pull, but he ignores it, both hands on Cas’ face as he kisses him, hit with a new surge of adrenaline at the change in position. Cas’ knees are bent slightly at his back, and from this angle Dean can grind down into Cas’ lap like he’s getting paid for it. Cas breaks off the kiss to drag his lips down Dean’s chest, taking a nipple into his mouth and lightly biting it. Dean curses, arching his back, using Cas’ knees to keep his balance.

Cas switches sides, and Dean threads his hand through Cas’ hair, giving him something to hold onto. He keeps thrusting in Cas’ lap, no real finesse to it, just friction that has his blood rushing under his skin. Cas comes up to meet him again, kissing Dean’s cheeks and jaw and chin. He captures Dean’s bottom lip, tongue decisive in his mouth as Dean sucks on it, loving the burn from Cas’ stubble he can feel starting to prickle all over his body. He files that thought away for later, to ask if Cas would maybe be interested in growing his beard out a bit.

Said train of thought is quickly vanquished as Cas starts attempting to relieve Dean of his pants, straightening out his legs so Dean can have room to scoot off. He’s left in his boxer-briefs, his erection straining evidently against the fabric. Even if it hadn’t been that obvious, the wet spot certainly is. Cas immediately zeroes in on it, running a quick finger across it that nevertheless has Dean jerking his hips, his dick visibly perking up at the attention. He puts that finger in his mouth and sucks, and Dean groans and throws his head back against the mat beneath him.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, running a hand through his hair. If he weren’t two seconds away from a conniption, he’d probably laugh.

Cas doesn’t cut him a break, however, hovering over Dean and watching him intently, gaze shamelessly dropping to regions south.

“Turn over?” he asks, and something zings right to Dean’s dick.

“You can tell me what to do,” he rushes out before the embarrassment can catch up to him. 

A kind of understanding clunks into place behind Cas’ eyes, and he leans down, lips ghosting against Dean’s.

“In that case,” he murmurs, “turn over, Dean.”

Dean does so, probably too eagerly, lying his forehead against his forearm. Cas has a hand kneading the back of his thigh, and Dean almost jumps when he hears the cap of the lube open.  Cas pus a hand on either side of his waist, pulling his underwear down and off. He lays his palms over Dean’s ass and squeezes, as if getting a feel for the cow before he buys.

Cas’ mouth is hot where he presses it to the back of Dean’s neck, and he trails wet kisses all the way down to the base of Dean’s spine, sucking gently on the dimples just above Dean’s ass.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, one hand touched briefly but reverently to the small of his back.

Embarrassment floods him, and he mumbles, “Cas…”

“Dean,” Cas says in a tone that brokers no argument, so Dean shuts the hell up and takes the compliment.

“I’m going to finger you now,” Cas says softly. “Okay?”

Cas can’t see it, but Dean licks his lips.

“Okay.”

Cas has one hand at the crease where Dean’s thigh meets his hip, pulling slightly and prompting him to raise his ass in the air. Dean feels more exposed than he ever realized he could be, and has a full half second to wonder if this is a mistake before he feels one of Cas’ fingers gently entering him for the first time and realizes, no, no, no mistakes here, only smart life decisions.

It burns and drags a little, but it’s not like Dean’s unused to those sensations, if in different contexts. Cas’ finger is cold first from the lube, but quickly heats up with the aid of Dean’s body heat. He only goes in to the first knuckle and Dean’s already sweating, mashing his forehead into his arm and making sounds he’s definitely going to be embarrassed about later.

“Cas, fuck, _Cas_ ,” he pants, trying to wriggle his hips and push back onto Cas’ finger. Cas holds him steady, though, hand tight at Dean’s hip.

“Easy,” he admonishes lightly, and presses a searing kiss to the base of Dean’s spine. He works his finger the rest of the way in, and Dean keens into it, feeling almost too aware of his dick hanging untouched between his legs.

“Cas,” he babbles, “Cas, please.” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, just that he’s asking for it. That at this moment, he wants Cas more than he’s ever wanted anything or anybody in his life.

Cas is palming his hip, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb into Dean’s skin while he slowly works another finger in.

“I have to admit,” he says, and Dean can feel Cas’ dick rubbing against his inner thigh and squeezes his eyes shut for fear of sensory overload, “The plan was to drag this out a little longer-” Dean interrupts him with what he intended as a firm, “hell no”, but in reality is more of a choked lamentation than anything, and Cas’ mouth curls upwards where it’s currently pressing kisses to his lower back. “The plan was,” he continues, breath warm on Dean’s skin, “a little tit-for-tat. I’m fairly patient, Dean, when I need to be.” He bites down lightly, and Dean tries to buck his hips again. “And not to beat a dead horse, but you _did_ sleep in a bathtub.” He inserts a third finger, curling them all at once, and little bulbs of lights burst in front of Dean’s eyes. He gasps like he’s just broken the surface, mouth lolling open and eyes still firmly shut.

“Holy sh- shit, Cas,” his thighs are quaking, his nerves frayed. He can feel the tears where they try to gather behind his eyes again, his overstimulated body trying to find some kind of release. Cas is slowly thrusting in between his thighs as he works his fingers in Dean, and Dean bites down hard on his own arm to try and stifle the groan at the drag of Cas’ dick where his skin is so sensitive.

“Cas, please,” he whines, “C’mon, please- Cas,”

Cas’ hand at Dean’s hip starts to stroke up and down Dean’s side, and Dean shudders under the ministrations.

“That was the plan,” he repeats, and Dean can hear that he finally sounds a little breathless too, that the veneer is finally starting to crack. He reaches beneath Dean and rolls his nipple between his thumb and index finger. “I’m not sure I can follow through anymore, to be honest.” His hips stutter slightly, and his fingers tighten, almost painfully. “Obviously I overestimated my self-control.”

Dean breathes out hard at that, tries to wrap his head around the fact that this isn’t even Cas going all out, that there’s still more of him to see and feel, that he’s still going to get _more_. He’s so overwhelmed he can barely speak, can barely form a coherent thought, but this is important.

“Fuck me, please,” he begs. “Castiel, please fuck me.”

Everything stops, and for a second Dean thinks he’s royally fucked up. Cas’ hand falls off him, he stops thrusting between Dean’s thighs, even his fingers in Dean still.

Very slowly, he pulls his fingers out of Dean and Dean immediately mourns their loss, having nothing to clench around and left feeling horribly empty.

His brain, usually going at hurricane level speeds of absurdity, halted completely the moment Cas kissed him, and now, like in every good bottlenecking situation, it all comes flooding out like someone somewhere out there in the universe finally popped his little pleasure bubble.

Or at least, they tried. Because then Cas says, no nonsense, “On your back,” and Dean’s stomach does acrobatics as he turns over, not without a grimace at the small pool of precome he’s now lying in. Cas shuffles between his legs, watching him raptly. He has one hand on each of Dean’s thighs, his grip solid, and Dean’s struck for only the millionth time how large Cas’ hands are, how sure as they hold him steady.

There are words that Dean hasn’t formed yet, trying to work their way out, but Cas surges forward and kisses him before he can vocalize them. He still has his sweats on, but Dean is completely naked and increasingly desperate, trying to rub himself off against them. He can feel Cas’ dick, hard through his sweats, lining up with his own, and ruts like a goddamn teenager up against him.

“C’mon,” he urges, “C’mon c’mon c’mon,”

Cas noses at his jawline, pressing his lips to the spot just below Dean’s ear.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, nipping at Dean’s earlobe.

“Castiel,” Dean chants, “Ca- _ah_ -stiel,” his voice breaks when Cas briefly wraps a hand around him, then cups Dean’s balls in his hand.

“Cough for me please, Mr. Winchester,” he says, completely seriously. It takes Dean a second, and then he makes the connection and bursts into laughter.  

“Shut the hell up,” he says, and pulls Cas back in.

He hears the telltale click of the lube cap again, and then Cas is sitting back in his haunches, slicking himself up, sweats lost to one dark corner of the room or another, as Dean props himself up on his elbows and feels his eyes bulge out of his head. This is the first time he’s ever actually seen Cas’ dick and he is… not complaining. If anything, he’s unsurprised when he realizes he’s been involuntarily biting his bottom lip, gaze lingering on Cas’s hand as he properly lubes up. He wants to touch himself so badly but he knows at this point, it’s probably a bad idea. He’s waited so long for this, no way is he getting off before the main event.

“Oh my god,” he mourns, “We should have been doing this for years. Why haven’t we been doing this for years?”

“Well, Dean, I don’t know the exact number, but I imagine there are a lot of bath tubs-”

“Yeah, okay, I walked right into that one,” Dean grumbles.

Cas nudges at Dean’s entrance, kissing his cheekbone. “I’m sure it was very comfortable,” he consoles, and slides in.

Dean’s world lights up. His eyes fly open, and suddenly it’s like he can see every dust mote in the air, can hear the beating of both his and Cas’ hearts, wonders if this is the best he can ever feel, the fullest, the happiest. Even the burn of the stretch only exists as a counterpoint to the high, is only there to act as the benchmark he’s flown so far from.

He pulls Cas down into a kiss, feels every move as Cas inches further into him, rolling his hips to guide him.

“Christ,” he mumbles into Cas’ mouth, “Cas, Jesus.”

“Good?”

“So, so good.”

When Cas bottoms out, Dean lets out probably the most bone-deep sigh of satisfaction he’s ever allowed himself, stretched and full and sated.

They stay like that, kissing deeply and rolling their hips together, until Dean feels the itch start to creep under his skin again, that gut stirring that’s much more primal than the overblown balloon currently holding real estate in Dean’s chest.

He rolls his hips a little more insistently, meets Cas’ thrusts a little harder. Cas goes slow at first, only pulling out about halfway before thrusting back in, and it makes Dean’s eyes roll back in his head. He wraps his arms around Cas’ broad shoulders, clinging to the muscle there as Cas thrusts in again, and again, pulling sounds from the back of Dean’s throat he didn’t even realize he was capable of making.

Cas pulls away only long enough to press a hand to the underside of Dean’s knee.

“Wrap them around me,” Cas says, the command soft in his voice. He helps Dean get his knees hooked over Cas’ waist, his ankles crossed above Cas’ back.

This new position gives Cas more room to maneuver, and Dean moves with him, clutching onto Cas as he grows more accurate with his thrusts.

“This might be a bad time to bring this up,” Dean pants, holding onto Cas even tighter. Cas has his hands flat on the mat on either side of Dean’s head, arms straining as he holds himself over Dean.  Dean turns his head and presses a kiss to the inside of Cas’ elbow, “But I’m-ah, f- _fuck_ -in love with you.”

Cas’ eyes go wide, but he doesn’t necessarily look surprised. Pleased, maybe. Glowy.

When he doesn’t say anything back, Dean finds his eyebrows rising. He doesn’t want to put anyone on the spot, but… “Are you gonna…?” he tries to say it without saying it.

“Am I gonna…?” Cas repeats, and his next thrust knocks out Dean’s power for a couple seconds before he has a chance to recover.

Not that he’s sloppy as fuck and literally clinging to Cas with all four limbs or anything, but some reciprocation would be nice.

“Say…….. something?” he says vaguely.

Cas blinks at him, and then it seems to click.

“Oh,” he says. Then, “I’m sorry, Dean. I’ve been in love with you for so long I guess I didn’t think it needed to be said.”

“Oh,” Dean echoes, just as surprised. “Um. That’s good.”

“I can say it again if you want.”

Dean can feel himself getting flustered- more than he already is. “No, it’s- you don’t have to- that’s okay.”

Cas kisses him. “I love you.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“… Okay.”

“I love you.”

Dean swallows past the lump in his throat, blinking rapidly. His eyes itch. “Okay.”

“Despite your ill-conceived trip into that gas station bathroom on the way to Minnesota, I still love you.”

If his face wasn’t red before, it certainly is now.

“You-” he accuses, though he’s not exactly sure what he could accuse him of.

“You weren’t exactly subtle, Dean.”

Cas thrusts into him again, and Dean groans.

“Fuck it,” he sighs. It’s never a thought he would have expected himself to acknowledge, but he’s too distracted by Cas’ dick to care. “I’ll deal with that later.”

“Whatever you say,” Cas says, and speeds up his thrusts. Dean has to interlock his fingers across Cas’ back so he doesn’t slip off, and he can already feel the ache in his back building from having sex on a gym floor. But it’s so good. It’s inimitably good. It’s the kind of good Dean’s been searching for his whole life. Cas fills Dean up in every way that matters, his heart, his soul, and yeah, his ass. Dean loves him, and Cas loves him back, and his stomach is gross and sticky with precome from his sorely neglected dick. He has to admit, fucking out almost a decade of unresolved sexual tension is a more cathartic experience than he ever could have realized. Being in love and admitting you’re in love and admitting your love out loud is incredibly scary, and Dean will probably continue to freak out about it in the coming days and weeks and months and maybe even years. But here and now, it doesn’t matter. Him and Cas have made it this far, and he’ll be damned if they aren’t reaching that finish line together.

Speaking of finish lines, Dean can see his rapidly approaching, and judging by the stuttering of Cas’ hips, he’s close as well. The closer it gets, the closer Dean pulls himself to Cas, the more desperately he meets Cas’ thrusts. Everything is slippery with sweat, and Dean holds on. He can feel the pressure building up in his balls, the heat churning in his abdomen. Cas’ breath is hot and heavy in his mouth, and he mumbles Dean’s name, and he tells Dean he loves him, has always loved him, will always love him.

Dean comes with Cas’ name on his lips, his vision briefly whiting out and the light blooming around him, too bright, riding it too high. He kisses Cas furiously, desperately through it, wanting to climb inside and nest in a place he knows he’ll always be safe, always be warm.

He whispers Cas’ full name, speaks it into his skin with all the awe and reverence he knows it deserves, the name of the being who pulled him out of hell, who became the human who saved him.

Cas scrunches his eyes shut tight when he comes, and that’s when the tears finally spill, Dean not even recognizing them for what they are as they slide out the corners of his eyes. Knowing that he did that for Cas, though, feeling him finish inside him, like Dean’s a worthy vessel to house something as beautiful as Cas, that’s… that’s overwhelming.

It’s his turn to squeeze his eyes shut, and it’s only seconds before he feels fingertips brushing his face, tracing his tear tracks where they’ve run down his temples.

“Dean,” Cas says quietly, pressing a kiss to his hair. Without breaking Dean’s grip, he lowers himself down to lie next to Dean, fitting a palm to his cheek.

Dean opens his eyes, knowing they’ll be too bright.

“Hi,” he says, and smiles. He can feel another tear trickle down his face, but it’s not- it’s not bad. Just that excess that Dean seems to be so good at. Usually it gets beat out of him by the various monsters of the week when they slam him into walls and cabinets and tables, but this is a different kind of catharsis. A welcome one.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says.

Cas smiles less with his mouth and more with his eyes, but Dean can see it, wants to wrap himself up in that expression like the big fluffy comforter he’s been promising himself for months he’s going to buy for his bed.

Instead, he does the next best thing and plasters himself to Cas’ side shamelessly, knowing he doesn’t have long before common sense kicks in and reminds him this gym is technically public domain in the bunker.

Dean lazily mouths at Cas’ collarbone, and Cas runs his fingers along Dean’s side, somehow still managing to draw goosebumps to the surface.   

They’re silent for a couple minutes, Dean’s eyelids growing heavier with every pass of Cas’ fingers over his skin, and then Cas heaves a sigh.

 “I’d better go,” he says.

Dean glances at him.

“Go where?”

 “Well, our business is concluded, isn’t it?” Cas asks.

“What?”

“Right there, you were almost sleeping. That was our deal, right? I tire you out in exchange for hand-to-hand practice?”

Dean gapes at him.

“ _What_?”

Then he realizes that Cas has the same look in his eye as he does when he feigns ignorance over how to wash the dishes properly and somehow Dean ends up doing it for him.

“You little shit,” he says, and the corners of Cas’ mouth curl up.

“We’re even now,” Cas promises. “I swear. No more bathtub jabs from me, I promise.” He looks too innocent as he adds, “Now, if Sam were to find out… I’m not sure if I could stop him.” His expression turns wicked, and Dean laughs and kisses him until he stops being a fucking turd.

They stay there for a little longer, and it’s right before Dean thinks they really should get up and get clean and cleaning, that he brings it up. He doesn’t mean to sound as nervous as he does when he says it, but it’s the unfamiliarity of the concept that trips him up, not the actual intent behind the question.

“So, uh…” he says. He laughs nervously, as if speaking to Cas’ chest instead of his face will somehow make this easier. “You and me, huh?” Yeah, they did the I love you’s, but there’s more than one level to these things. Dean needs to know.

“What about us?”

Dean swallows. Cas has nice nipples. He should’ve gone that route instead.

“Do you- are we… y’know.” There’s a vague hand gesture he makes against Cas’ back, as if that will somehow help him explain.

“Listen, Dean,” Cas says, in a completely reasonable tone, “If you don’t think you can do this, or you don’t want to do this, I’m not going to force you. We’ll work around it. We can be friends and only friends.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “I mean, I would be thoroughly devastated if you decided not to pursue a romantic relationship with me, but yes, I mean it.”

“Oh.” Dean chews on his tongue for a second, processing, “uh, good. Because I feel the same way. About you, I mean.”

They really need to get up soon, but Dean clings just a little tighter.

***

It’s the morning after, and it’s another breakfast. Cas is undoubtedly going to be asleep for at least another three hours, and Dean has the target in his sites.

Or, well, his ears, since he can hear Sam flopping down the hallway towards the kitchen, undoubtedly following the scent of the spinach omelettes Dean knew would draw him out.

He walks into the kitchen in all his sweaty, post-run glory, hair still in its ridiculous pony-tail (Dean’s attempt at coercing Sam into getting a trim for the sake of hidebehinds everywhere didn’t go so well, imagine that). He beelines for the fridge, pouring himself a glass of orange juice that probably contains more fruit than Dean eats in a month.

“Is that spinach?” Sam asks, eyes wide enough that Dean can’t help but feel at least a little offended.

“Hey,” he says, “If you don’t want ‘em…”

“Didn’t say that,” Sam says, grabbing a plate from where Dean’s stacked them on the counter, “Smells good.”

As Dean slides one onto Sam’s plate, Sam seems to really get a good look at him because he has kind of a funny smile on his face and he claps a hand to Dean’s shoulder.

“You’re looking better,” he says, “Like you actually got a good night’s sleep.”

Dean considers. He spent about an hour last night trying to wrestle at least a square inch of blanket from an out-cold Cas, but after that it had been admittedly smooth sailing. Cas burrito’d in blankets is less fun to cuddle with, maybe, but a much more navigable shape and less prone to wake up in the middle of the night and complain about the sweat that comes from Dean’s tendency to cling.

So, no. All in all it wasn’t bad.

“Yeah,” he says, probably not doing very well at hiding his doofy smile if Sam’s expression is anything to go by, “It was alright.”

Sam brings his food to the table and sits with an ungraceful thunk.

“So, the insomnia backed off finally?” he asks.

Dean shrugs. “For now.” If not, he now has Cas to help tire him out, at least.

“What about your head?” Sam asks.

“Like a million bucks,” Dean says, and Sam gives him another weird look because he’s not even lying.

“Good,” Sam says, after his mini recalibration. “I’m glad.” He takes his first bite of the omelette and makes a face. “Good,” he repeats with a full mouth. “I’m very glad.”

“Yeah, yeah, compliments to the chef,” Dean waves his spatula around and turns to seal the rest of the mixture up for whenever Cas decides to grace them with his presence.

Not that he will anytime soon, because whether Cas is sleeping or not (he is, Dean’s sure), he promised Dean he’d stay out of sight until noon, so Dean can gather his wits about him once more and have a much less explicit version of the Cas talk with Sam.

He sits down opposite him at the table, staring intently at the coffee he left there before he started cooking. It’s gone lukewarm and could definitely use a nuke, but Dean drinks it anyway to give himself something to do.

“So,” he says, and Sam immediately puts down his fork.

“I know that tone,” he says darkly. He looks suspiciously down at his omelette, putting it all together. “What happened,” he asks flatly. “Are you about to do something stupid? Do I need to call Cas in here to-”

“No, Jesus, Sam,” Dean snaps, annoyed at his cover being blown so quickly. Has he always been this obvious? “I just want to talk. Down, Fido.”

Sam squints at him, but grudgingly takes another bite of omelette.

“What, then?” he asks, still guarded.

 Dean takes a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling first, then hard zeros in on his mug.

“Okay,” he says, “So, look. Me and Cas are-”

He’s interrupted by a hacking noise from across the table, and when he looks up, Sam is very obviously choking on the bite of omelette he just took.

He’s halfway out of his seat when Sam holds a hand out to him, gesturing curtly back to his chair, grabbing his glass and taking long gulps of orange juice. He coughs a couple times, eyes watering, and thumps himself on the chest.

“Sorry,” he says, face red. “Spinach went down the wrong way.”

There are so many jokes waiting to be made here, but Dean doesn’t want to get off track.

“Anyway,” Sam looks at him again, much more composed. Almost questionably so. “You and Cas. Go on.”

“Uh…” Dean rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, hoping his cheeks aren’t turning pink. “Yeah, so me and Cas. It’s really not a big deal- like, at all. In any way, shape, or form, really, but, um. Yeah. Me and Cas.”

“Yes,” Sam prompts slowly, his face still strangely blank. “I’m aware what you’re talking about pertains to you and Cas.”

Dean would rather walk off a cliff than deal with this conversation, but that would be a shame since there are so many places him and Cas haven’t had sex yet. He hasn’t even given Cas a blow job yet, and he thinks if he died before that happened he’d be one pissed off spirit.

“Yeah,” he says, begging himself to just rip the band aid off, “So… Me and Cas are like… Me and Cas. As in…” he takes another sip of coffee, mumbling, “Together, or whatever,” into his mug.

Sam stares at him, and there’s still something weird about it that Dean can’t put his finger on.

“You and Cas,” he says.

“Me and Cas,” Dean says, and wonders if an acceptable compromise for him not walking off a cliff as a result of this conversation is at least chopping off the tips of his ears, which he’s positive are bright pink by now. Traitors.

“You and Cas,” Sam says, almost wistfully. He’s staring off into the distance, like he’s waiting for all the dots to connect in his head.  

 Dean watches warily.

“You and Cas…” Sam says again. He taps a finger on the table.

After a minute, his eyes go wide. His eyebrows rise. He inhales like he’s about to start delivering a speech from a pulpit without a microphone, and then Dean realizes why he was acting weird.

Because his brother is a fucking asshole, of course. And he _knows_. 

“You...” an extremely dramatic pause, and Dean gets it, thanks. “And CAS?”

“Uh huh,” he says flatly. Maybe that cliff isn’t looking so bad after all.

Sam slaps a palm to his cheek, faux-gobsmacked.

“Cas as in… Cas _tiel_? Former angel of the lord? Your totally platonic friend Cas?”

“Sam-”

“I’m just SAYING,” he interrupts. “If I’m picking up what my dear big brother is putting down, and that you and Castiel, former angel of the lord, are indeed now in a romantic relationship, then _theoretically-”_ His eyes go really big here, and moves as if to tuck his hair behind his ears, despite his hair being in a pony-tail, “-if one had been holding his damn tongue for literal years on the subject, always afraid of pissing off one or both parties and thus inviting grievous bodily or follicle-centered harm, then this announcement would be something one should probably celebrate, wouldn’t you say?”

Dean stares, unimpressed. “You done?”

Sam breaks out into a genuine smile.

“I’m happy for you, Dean. I’m happy for you both.”

“Unclench, Samantha.”

“I’m happiest for me, though. I feel like I’ve been sitting in a movie theater for the past half-decade and the credits have _finally_ started rolling. ”

Dean pats him on the shoulder.

“Good talk.”

Sam leans forward, his interest in the discussion increasing at the same rate that Dean’s seems to be decreasing, it would seem.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, “You know how weird it is to watch what’s essentially the most depressing rom-com of all time play out right in front of your face for years on end?” Before Dean can answer, Sam beats him to it. “I know, you didn’t watch it, you starred in it, I get it. But Dean, listen. Just one request.” He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. He stands up and walks around to Dean’s side of the table, and puts both hands on Dean’s shoulders. “We all have eyes, okay? We all look at things. Can you confirm?”

“Sam.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Then please, Dean, for the love of god. I’ve been waiting years to say this. You and Cas have GOT to cool it with the looks. Our eyes are ball-shaped for a reason, okay? Let ‘em roll, buddy. Go birdwatching. Buy an eyepatch. Watch paint dry, I don’t care. Just. Please. When I’m around can you and Cas just turn down the volume a bit. I’m asking for the good of mankind, here.”

Dean just sits there, stumped. All he can come up with, eventually, is an incredulous, “How long have you _known_?”

Sam retreats back to his side of the table, suddenly pliant again. “God, I dunno. Like I said, Dean. I have eyes.”

Dean’s probably going to have to re-evaluate some things after this conversation, first in line being his apparent inability to keep his dick stowed when Cas is present. Like, in his head he knew was failing miserably. He didn’t realize it was one man show levels of obvious to everyone outside the looking glass as well.

His ass aches this morning. He wonders if Sam knows that too. Hopefully not.

“Dean,” Sam says, softer, “How stupid do you think I am? There are astronauts on space stations who could see what was going on between you two. I was trying to be a good brother by not pointing out the embarrassingly large elephant in the room. I was pretty sure you had convinced yourself by now it was just part of the decor.”

It’s safe to say Dean’s a little flabbergasted, but it’s nothing when compared to the stark relief on Sam’s face, who is apparently out from under a years-long shadow of Dean and Cas’ increasingly ridiculous unsolved sexual tension.

Sam seems giddy, actually. Like a little kid, and Dean almost feels bad for putting him through that misery, but then again, he was the one who actually had to live it. Sam just had a front row seat.

(Okay, so, he’s probably gonna cook Sam a few more spinach omelettes from now on, without the ulterior motives. Just to say thanks for being a trooper all these years.)

“Y’know what?” Sam says, grinning. “I’ve been meaning to start weight training for weeks, and haven’t felt the motivation to do so until now. But today is a good day. I’m feeling good.” He stands, bringing his dish to the sink. He walks past Dean, grasping his shoulder again. “Sorry for being a dick about it,” he says, “But I really am _so_ happy for you, Dean. You deserve it.” He pats him on the shoulder, and then leaves.

Dean sits there in the empty kitchen in a daze, trying to process what just happened. He gets all the way to what Sam said about weight training, and then something icy slides into the pit of his stomach.

“Sam,” he says blankly. Then, “SAM!” He flies out of the kitchen, bolts down multiple hallways as fast as he can, heart in his throat.

He’s too late. Oh, fuck he’s too late. He knew they forgot something.

He gets there just as Sam is closing the gym door behind him, face stoic. When he sees Dean, his expression doesn’t change at all.

“Okay,” he says stiffly. “Lesson learned. You guys are still the worst.”

Dean watches Sam disappear down the hallway, and out of respect to his little brother and his own dignity, waits until he thinks Sam is out of earshot.

Or, in this case, until he can’t hold it in anymore, and then all his worries about this morning burst out of him in near-hysterical laughter. It’s going to be hideously embarrassing later, but for now, he can laugh.

***

Sam bounced about twenty minutes ago, because Dean and Cas feel bad about ruining Sam’s life for the past eight years or so, and have collectively decided to warn him if he needs to leave the room long before anything depraved goes down within it.  

Cas has got an arm resting along the back of the couch, and Dean’s stretched out along the cushions, head on Cas’ shoulder. Technically they’re still “watching the movie”, but Cas’ other hand isn’t currently in the most movie-friendly of places. Dean lifts his head off Cas’ shoulder, and Cas turns to kiss him long and slow.

It’s good.

It’s really good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thus the story ends, but dean's thirst never will. at least now he can quench it.
> 
> for further discussion regarding dean's thirst, please feel free to visit me over on [tumblr](http://saltyfeathers.tumblr.com/)


End file.
